Father Once Spoke of an Angel
by Stealiana
Summary: [Currently under revision] Two orphans find the key to the passageway under the Rue Scribe. They work their way into Erik's lair and slowly into his heart. Not another woman fic.
1. La Rue Scribe

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera nor the characters. This is my first Phantom fic, please r/r for me! Let me know how I'm doing with Erik!

A/N: In this story, there's the Phantom Erik and the street boy Eric. I know it's going to be a little confusing, but it will all be tied together eventually. Also, this timeline is supposed to be occurring around the same as the original Erik/Christine story line. To avoid an unnecessarily long fic, I skip through years to progress both aspects of the story. Hope that clears up some of the confusion.

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

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Chapter 1: La Rue Scribe

It was dark. But he was used to it. It didn't matter anyway; he knew these streets like they were the back of his hand. Not that he knew the back of his hand very well; it was merely a phrase. They were simply words put together to mean something. And he knew that words were not something to be used lightly. He had heard the same words over and over again - "Monster!" "Beast!" "My God, that can't be human!" - but each time it had a new layer of hate, fear, or horror. Each time the words took on a new meaning, reminding him of his ugliness. Well, he need not be reminded any more.

This was the one time he dared roam the streets - under the familiar cloak of night. None questioned his mask and none questioned his presence. He was in control, choosing when he was seen, choosing where his voice was heard. He liked to think there was no one quite as talented as he in this department.

At that moment, he heard a small patter on the cobblestones, not far from where he was ambling. He drew back into the shadows, seeing a woman - not old, but not young either - dart into the alleyway. Her clothes were in tatters, and her arms sported numerous bruises, illuminated by the faint light from the street. She held a crudely wrapped bundle in her arms, which she lay in the corner, against the stone building. Quickly glancing about her, the woman darted off, her dirty feet only softly gracing the cobblestones as she went the way she had come.

He stepped from the shadow and moved towards the ball of rags. His curiosity was piqued, and he could not help but peel back the top layer of filth to reveal the contents. It was a small child; from what he could see, he supposed it was a girl. He looked at the face critically, angered that he could find nothing wrong with it.

"Why did she leave you, little girl? Aren't mothers supposed to love their children?" The baby was sleeping peacefully, blonde strands framing its face. "You angel… she should not have left you. No, you are not like Erik, not at all. You are so beautiful..." He felt his hand reaching out to touch its hair, but he pulled it back. Unfortunately, he had woken the child, who let out a piteous shriek. He stepped back, caught off guard. The shriek subsided into sobs - loud, wracking sobs. He was furious.

"Do I scare you?! You scream when you see Erik, the same as everyone does!" He threw the rag he had taken off at the child. "You're just like the rest! Even a child sees me for the beast I am…" He felt himself breaking, his control sliding. He choked out a horrific cry, then swept his cloak about him, running from the alley.

The child kept shrieking, but its mother never came.

* * *

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5 years later

Eric returned.

"Nothing." He showed his empty hands to the girl leaning against the building. She sighed heavily.

"Today is not our day, is it?" He slumped against the wall next to her, feeling his bony spine scrape against the stone. He winced, but didn't say anything. It wouldn't be the first day they had gone without food. The streets were merciless, and it was a known fact that only the strong survive. Times had been particularly hard, ever since Jacques had caught the chest sickness.

Jacques had been Eric's mentor, so to speak. Jacques had protected him, and the girl from the alley for as long as Eric could remember. He had also taught Eric, who was now at the proud pick-pocketing age of eight, all the tricks of the trade. Magic tricks, illusions, all sorts of deceptive maneuvers that Jacques had been taught when he was a boy. Not that he had been that old when he died - he had been sixteen. But the streets have no mercy.

Jacques had been a combination of father and brother to little Eric, who was abandoned to the streets when his mother died in a machinery accident. Jacques had asked no questions when the filthy toddler wandered into his alley one night, he led the boy to a fountain and cleaned him. The ten year old gave him new rags which did not smell, and burned the parasite infested ones Eric had been wearing.

One night, Jacques brought home a softly crying bundle. He proudly displayed it to Eric, and asked if he would like a sister. Eric had laughed and said yes, he wanted someone to play in the streets with him. Jacques had laughed too, a deep laugh for so young a boy. He was now eleven, and already caring for two abandoned children. He seemed so much older, so much wiser. He always managed to bring home at least 100 francs a day, and then he would buy the scraps left over from the farmer's market. He always fed them, by whatever secret means he used. Jacques was flawless; he could do no wrong. Until he caught the chest sickness.

Even then, Jacques had brought money to them, but it slowly dwindled. A strange girl dressed in factory clothes stopped by frequently during his last weeks. She begged him to come to the boarding house with her, but he refused. He said he would take nothing from the pig of a foreman. She entreated him to seek a doctor, but again he refused. He told her any money he had left would go to Eric and his little angel. She had cried for over an hour. He slowly deteriorated, coughing his last breath of life away.

A silk-lined coat floating by caught Eric's eyes. He immediately stood, and stole towards the man. He disappeared into an oncoming crowd, but reappeared triumphant moments later. He whistled a merry tune with a glint in his eyes as he tossed a packet towards the girl.

"50 francs!"

* * *

She picked it up.

It was nothing but a tarnished key. It appeared to be gold, but the grime of the street had made it lose its luster. By holding it just right, it was possible to coax the mysterious object to glint. Not knowing what else to do, she showed it to Eric.

"What's it for?" He had asked.

"How should I know? But here, can you read this?" The illiterate girl pointed to an inscription on the key. It looked like a child's scratch when first learning to write words. Eric squinted.

"La Rue Scribe…" he murmured. His brows were knit in thought. She glanced at him, unsure and a little fearful.

"What would we find there?" Eric shrugged, a tiny grin spreading over his lips.

"I do not know. Shall we take a look?" Without waiting for an answer, he began sprinting through the streets, unable to contain his excitement and lust for adventure. She trailed behind, impressed he could navigate the labyrinth of streets.

* * *

He smiled. He had been right. La Rue Scribe hadn't been that far away. And over there, in all its elegance, was the Paris Opera House. Strange stories were circulating the streets about a ghost, but no one believed them. Except for the superstitious old men with no teeth. He wondered if she believed the tales.

He stopped when he saw stairs parallel to the street, going almost directly downward to a river. The concrete walls surrounding the water were tall, the gap between them narrow. Eric looked around, surprised at how deserted the entire area was. Nonetheless, he slowly descended the stairs, wondering if the golden key was the way into the sewers. Without a word, she followed him.

It was darker by the river than he originally anticipated. The only illumination was a border of candle lamps in the tall, dank passageway. The water lapped at the stone barriers, covering the sound of their bare feet pattering along the walk.

A cast iron grate loomed before them, the only entrance an iron door made in the same fashion as the rest of the barrier. Eric bent forward, realizing the padlock was not securely fastened. He tugged on it, his lean arms barely able to exert enough force to snap it open. The gate squeaked in protest, but he turned and beckoned her to follow him.

The passageway led upstream, heading back the way they originally come down the street. The sound of babbling water was silenced, and Eric felt the darkness open wide before him. He lifted the lantern he had taken from the entrance, realizing that a glowing lake lay before him. It was lit from beneath; a haunting green rose from the murky depths. Eric could not see a way to get across, so he groped in the dark until he could make out a set of stairs leading upward. Unwilling to break the deathly silence, he took her hand to lead her. He could feel his curiosity dissolving into fear, but he could not stop his feet from moving upward. He felt her own hand shaking in his, and squeezed it reassuringly.

The stairs leveled off, into some kind of basement area. There was another hinged door, before entering. This padlock was the same as the one on the outside, and the key in his hand matched it. The interior was a dust-coated space full of crates, boxes, bags, strange pieces of wood nailed together as house fronts and elephants. It was an odd arrangement, jumbled and filled with cobwebs. Eric almost cried out when the lantern unveiled a human skeleton made of plaster lying on an imitation brick wall. He could barely keep his heart from bursting out of his chest.

Once he had artfully picked his way through the debris - it seemed as though none of this had been touched for years - he spotted another corridor, sloping back downward. He figured this one must lead to other side of the glowing lake. He bravely marched onward.

But it didn't bring them to the lake. It brought them to a fork in the corridor, one hall blocked by a crumbled ceiling. Eric could tell by the increasing pressure on his hand that she knew they were lost. But she trusted him, and let him navigate the maze as he saw fit.

At a great length, he stopped. He no longer knew where they were going, although he felt somewhat confident he could find the way back. Her grip on his hand was fading slightly; he knew she was tired. As he was about to turn back, he froze and listened. Without warning, he scrambled with her back into a larger room from which they had just come. A lining of barrels along the walls provided an adequate hiding spot. He pinched out the lantern fuse, cursing himself for having no extra matches about him. She let him hide her behind the barrels, as silent as she had been the entire time they were exploring. He sat beside her, and she felt his calming hand on her shoulder suddenly freeze.

Two glowing spheres floated through the darkness, overtaking the hiding spot of the two vagabonds. The orbs approached silently, drifting on the air in search of something, or someone. Just when the mysterious glow was near, she felt something touch her hand. A rat. She knew she couldn't cry out. She knew she couldn't scream. But despite her efforts, a whimper escaped her lips.

Before she knew what had happened, there was the sudden light of a lantern, and a hand hauling her off her feet by the ragged collar of her shirt. A gruff voice majestically roared in her ears before she was thrown to the ground.

"You will pay for this!"

*** Just a friendly reminder to r/r!


	2. Reliving a Nightmare

Disclaimer: Same holds as before…

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

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Chapter 2: Reliving a Nightmare

"Firmin and Andrés send children to hunt me out, do they? Well, they will see soon enough it is best not to meddle with the affairs of the Opera Ghost!" The lantern light soaked into a man wearing a black swallowtail coat over a crisp white-buttoned shirt. A black satin mask in the light hid half his face, the rest cowering in the shadows. Where the glowing orbs had been were now black holes, bottomless pits of ebony. The frown on the lips of the being did not, and could not, equal the anger in which he spoke.

"Children! They send me children! Did they expect the hideous ghost to eat them?! Were they asking for another tragedy? Oh, I would _hate_ to see another chandelier drop, but if the cables are frayed, the managers are at fault. Oh yes, the managers are the ones to blame. If children are eaten by the ghost in the cellars of the Opera House, well, the managers must be the ones who caused it…" In one adept sweep, he caught up the girl again, looking at her more carefully this time.

"Yes… yes, the managers are to blame." He snarled as he heard her whimper again. "Am I no better than the rodents that crawl the cellar?! Are you frightened yet, child?!" His voice was powerful, carrying itself through her entire being. She bit her lip to keep from crying. His voice was strained as he thundered,

"Answer me! Are you frightened yet?! Are you ready to go back to your mother? Your loving mother, who never tells you to leave and never come back?! Who cries when you are gone?! ANSWER ME!" His voice was high, stretched to the breaking point. His gloved fist was shaking, threatening an explosion of unpredictable violence.

Eric leapt over the barrels, stumbling slightly. He hit up against the side of the angry man, who lowered the girl and turned, surprised. The Opera Ghost extended a hand, his knuckles delivering a slap across Eric's jaw. The boy felt his mouth fill with blood, but he pulled on the girl, the slackened grip on her collar lenient enough for her escape. The man towered over them both, and it seemed that there were red pinpricks of light coming from the back of the mask where the eyes were supposed to be. Fearing that the Ghost would come after them, Eric took her hand and fled. He stumbled through the dark, his hands groping for the way they had come. The last words he heard were faint as they reverberated through the deserted tunnels.

"Is it not enough for me to be condemned to this hell for eternity? To perish alone? Oh God, oh God, let me die, let me be a corpse rotting in the cellars of the Opera House… for I am as good as dead without her…and yet, no corpse could be more repulsive than I!" A tormented cry penetrated all the stone walls, and it drove itself into Eric's ears like rusty nails. A hoarse sobbing escorted the pair of beggars to the exit of the underground passageway and was finally silenced as the padlock was snapped shut.

Once they were back on the Rue Scribe, Eric turned to her. His face, though bruised on the right side, was evidently beaming. He turned her hand palm up and placed something in it.

"5,000 francs!"

* * *

Erik finally picked himself up. He had slumped over, with his face in his hands. His hideous face. He had been forced to remove his mask, for the tears had overwhelmed him, running over and under that hated piece of clothing. He had not forgotten to extinguish the lantern beforehand. No, he never forgot that. He searched his pocket for a handkerchief. It was then he noticed it. His money was gone.

"The rats took it, did they." His legs felt heavy and his feet did not wish to move. He had no will to follow them and terrorize them further. Instead, he decided, he would finish the preparations tomorrow. He would see the Persian and make arrangements then. He would buy the necessary materials at some other time. Then he would be at peace. Now that she had left him, he had no will to live.

He turned back to his house. He had more arrangements that needed to be made. More preparations involving the final sealing of his dwelling, once she returned and left for the last time. She would need instructions. Yes, that's what he would do.

* * *

Erik turned the last corner. He preferred using the Rue Scribe entrance. He had several other exits, but this was the most convenient. He approached the gate and suddenly halted. There was a neatly wrapped package sitting on the inside of the locked bars, with a folded note on top. He looked about, but had not seen anyone nor heard anything throughout his silent travels. Slowly he knelt, and opened the paper. In sloppy print, the letter read:

'Monsieur Opera Ghost:

Our most humble apologies for the intrusion. Here's a cake we bought, to make amends. We hope you enjoy it.'

Erik tore the tiny paper in half and tossed it into the sluggish river. As he watched the current carry it away through the bars, he turned to leave. He was in no mood for practical jokes, nor humiliation by some disease infested street rat. The image of the two children fleeing from him was still fresh in his mind, and the memory of his final plans had done little to gloss over his anger. But it was the thought of the task he had come to complete which made him suddenly turn again. An irrational question surfaced in his mind, the curiosity too much to avoid. He peeled back the paper wrapping to reveal the cake inside. He reached out to break a piece off, but hesitated. He finally tasted it, still wary. It was nothing more than a simple honey cake, but to his palate it was far superior than anything he had ever tasted. Perhaps, perhaps he would wait to see the Persian. Yes, surely, the visit could wait.

* * *

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3 years later

It had begun to rain.

A cold, driving rain, the kind that forced itself through the clothing, straight for the skin. It was only a matter of time before the temperature dropped enough for the rain to begin icing over. Eric was worried.

She had been coughing for several weeks now. It was becoming more and more frequent, more and more haggard. Each day it sounded like Jacques's cough had. He didn't like this.

He had no money to bring her to a doctor. The factory owners would let her into the infirmary, under the condition that she stayed to work if she became well. Eric had heard enough stories circulating of girls who had died from machinery accidents, not to mention what he had been told about his own mother. He knew how the foremen raped the young girls in the factories. It made him sick. He would die before she even saw the factories, he vowed. Nonetheless, he was worried.

The rain had changed to ice. Tiny flecks pelted his face as he made his way back to where she promised she would stay. His heart missed a beat when he saw her.

Her face was red, unnaturally red. Her lips were purple as she lay huddled against a cold stone building front. He hurried to her, encircling her in his own lanky arms, rubbing a hand up against hers, trying to warm them. He breathed on her fingers, trying to think of what else he could do. Her eyes were dark and filled with such a sadness he had never seen before. She seemed to know that the cold was sinking in, permanently. He blinked back the burning tears he felt coming, and gathered her malnourished body in his arms.

"I know you don't want to go, but we have no choice. I'm going to bring you somewhere warm… and… maybe someone can help us. I promise I'll take care of you." Her tiny blonde head leaned against his shoulder, her silence indicating her agreement. He briefly touched his pocket before he broke into a brisk walk, weaving his way through the almost empty streets.

He tried to shelter her from the sleet as best he could, but it wasn't until he started descending the stairs that the sky let up. The tall walls protected them from the wind, which was better than before. When he reached the entrance, he gently put her down and pulled out the key. She opened her eyes, taking a moment to recollect where they were. Her eyes widened in fear as she saw the gate and the key. She moaned slightly, starting to get up. Eric had already unlocked the door, though, and he scooped her into his arms.

"Come on, it'll be warmer inside. I promise, everything will be just fine." He began to make his way down through the darkness, each step revisiting the silent exploration he had made with her so long ago. He had taken the lantern again, slipping the chain around his wrist. It grated against his skin, but he had no free hands to carry it with.

He walked until he found the cellar with odd bits and pieces of cloth. Most were old tapestries which had been used in some production of the Opera. Eric carefully brushed them as clean as he could, making a tiny bed in the corner of a raised platform. He wrapped her up in them and sat next to her, holding her upright.

"You can't sleep until you've warmed up a little," he insisted. Jacques had gotten angry with him once for sleeping while he was cold. He never explained why, but he said that if Eric had fallen asleep, he wouldn't have woken up again. Eric didn't want to run the risk that this was the same kind of situation. He watched her eyes droop closed, her breathing slowing.

"No, no, you can't sleep just yet!" Eric shook her gently, forcing a moan out of her followed by a cough. She looked at him pitifully.

"Please, Eric, I just want to rest a little…" 

"No, no… not until you're warm." He put the back of his hand against her cheek, his concern evident. "I know. We'll sing, and then you can sleep, alright?" Her eyes lit up, and she nodded. He smiled. "I'll start…"

His voice started out timidly, not wanting to break the silence. But she joined him, their voices weaving in and out to create an angelic sound as they sang a lullaby. Eric put his hand against her cheek and smiled, nodding to her as he kept singing. She fell asleep leaning against him, and he smiled, softly petting her hair as he ended the song.

He had just finished tucking her in when he stopped. He suddenly felt as though he was being watched. He turned slowly, afraid of what he might find. His heart paused in his chest and he felt a lump in his throat.

It was the Opera Ghost.

***Friendly reminder to r/r


	3. Broken Souls

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Disclaimer: The same as before applies.

A/N: I wrote the mini-song that appears in this chapter, so if you're wondering where it came from, I'll take credit for it!

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Chapter 3: Broken Souls

Erik had been prepared to leave. And this time, he would follow through with it. He didn't even know why he had bothered to wait so long. He was forced to remind himself over and over that she was gone. She was gone with Raoul. Was he really waiting for her to come back? Did he really think after she had seen his face she would come back voluntarily? No, she thought he was a monster. Oh, he should have been dead by now. The dungeon he called his home was filled with her, where she had been, what she had said, songs they had sung. And where she had kissed him! It tore him to shreds every time he passed that spot. He had never stood there again. How could he, when he remembered the only time she had willingly touched him? It made him feel the sharp pangs of loneliness more than ever, and it reinforced the throbbing of pain that thoughts of his angel evicted. Erik knew he had held on for far too long. It was time to put an end to this.

As he walked, he ran over the list of things he had still neglected to do. Seal his music portfolio - yes, he needed to put them all in some sort of envelope or booklet. Cancel the monthly allowance - he knew the managers would be thrilled. There was also the gunpowder… he had yet to devise a way in which she could light the fuse without actually knowing she had done so. His instructions were for her to come in the dead of night. He would have the Opera House ruined - he would bring the whole place down! He would be broken amongst the theater he had loved best, which had never loved him back. It was fitting, a well-deserved punishment he had put off for too long.

He had reached the fourth level of cellars before he noticed that soft sound. He could not make out exactly what it was, but the tune lilted and twisted in his head, driving him to find just who had entered his domain. The constant ire that rose to the surface on the occasions he needed to scare off intruders was not present, oddly enough. Erik silently opened another door and stepped into the cellar.

His ears were graced by the sound of a lullaby, being sung by a boy's voice so strong and pure that it hurt. The words were barely audible, but a girl joined in, her own voice matching his in elegance and innocence. It was clear that neither knew what it was to _sing_, but there was such a massive amount of raw talent behind the ragged edges that it was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, noting every word.

"It doesn't matter just how far you go,

There's always a second answer, another way.

And if you merely ask me one more time

Then gladly I will forget the rest to stay.

Close your eyes to stop the tears from falling,

Hold out your hand to save a broken soul.

Put your head on my shoulder and rest now,

You are all that's left to keep me whole…"

The girl's voice had faded out, a deep cough was followed by silence, but the boy continued singing softly.

"Don't be frightened of the dark while I am here

Don't waste your thoughts on whatever will come next.

We'll hold our hands together for these broken souls

Just put your head on my shoulder and rest…"

Erik had stood, listening, watching, as the boy painstakingly lay the girl down and wrapped her in tapestries. Erik did not realize that throughout the song he had slowly come forward, drawn in by the sound of the voices. He was suddenly reminded when The boy turned, his eyes filled with anger. He immediately rose to his feet and glared at Erik, who was still dazed by the performance.

There was a tense silence; the lanky boy was no match should the Ghost choose to do anything violent. But the tenacity of his clenched fists oddly fascinated Erik. The Ghost deliberately opened his mouth, choosing his words carefully.

"What are you doing in these cellars?" He tried very hard to sound matter-of-fact about it. No point in letting the boy know he had heard. No point in being sympathetic. The boy paused, and Erik could see he was anxious.

"When you have no where else to go, one takes what one can find," the young boy answered cheekily, at length.

"How did you get in?"

"I've been here before, I know my way."

"The doors through the Opera House are locked, how did you get in?"

"Another was unlocked, Monsieur."

"I am losing my patience. I asked, how did you get in?"

"… I have a key."

"How did you get it?"

"I found it."

"I said -"

"I-!" The boy lowered his voice, remembering the girl who was sleeping. "…found it." Erik was silent for a moment. He recalled when he had promised Christine he wouldn't go into her dressing room again without her permission. He had given her a key. A key to the Rue Scribe passage.

"You found it."

"Oui." Erik paused for a moment, his eyes traveling to the girl. _So innocent…_

"What's wrong with her?"

"She is sick." The boy looked at him warily. "Not that it concerns you." Erik felt a prick of anger over the boy's hostility. But he suppressed it.

"How long has she been like this?" There was a silence; the boy did not answer. "For God's sake, boy, answer the question! How long -"

"Four or five weeks." The boy lowered his eyes, trying to hide his concern. Erik felt himself wavering, subconsciously fighting it. He looked at this boy, this boy he could have been, singing to Christine, asking her to hold his broken soul… 

He caved in. In an authoritative manner, he stepped forward.

"She will come with me."

***Friendly reminder to r/r!


	4. Master of Miracles

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Disclaimer: The same as before applies.

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Chapter 4: Master of Miracles

"I won't let you touch her!" The boy spread his arms, a feeble attempt to block the Ghost's advancement.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Erik scoffed. "Would you rather she died among the forgotten relics of the façades men have built?" He turned, feeling a prick of remorse for even trying to help. He did not take kindly to those who refused his few offers of goodwill. He began to walk away, saddened that the girl's sweet voice would soon be permanently silenced.

As Erik was about to leave the cellar, the boy called to him.

"Monsieur… do… do you know of a place she can stay? I'm afraid I have no money…" His voice wavered. Erik stopped and said over his shoulder,

"What you cannot pay in material terms will be more than compensated for through your talents." Erik returned and picked up the girl, surprised at her lightness. He wondered if perhaps it was already too late. For once, he was remotely thankful his mask covered his face. It wore an expression he was sure would betray his doubt of her survival.

Now that the boy had entrusted her care to him, he was like a little puppy - helpless, defenseless, and trailing Erik with soulful eyes. It was clear he was filled only with concern for this girl. Erik decided he had best lay down the ultimatum now, to ensure this unguided soul knew just what he was getting himself into.

"You must swear on your life never to tell a soul of what you will see. Or you shall pay - with a punishment much worse than death." The boy seemed slightly shaken by the threat, but did not change his mind.

"Who would I tell? You can count on my silence."

"Good. Now come, let us go to the lake."

* * *

Her eyes opened to see Eric's face lying on the edge of her bed.

__

Her bed…

She looked around the strange room. There was a fireplace, with a crackling fire warming her underneath the white, downy quilt she was covered in. Tapestries covered the dark walls, brightening the room filled with mahogany furniture and a chest of drawers. She saw no door to the room, but this did not frighten her as much as perhaps it should have. She burrowed beneath the sheets, facing Eric's peaceful face. She examined the trinkets on the shelves and mantelpiece, then stared at the top of Eric's head. He hadn't washed, even though she saw a perfectly good bathroom from where she lay. She found it odd there was no looking glass in either room.

She closed her eyes. Considering the lack of knowledge of her location, she supposed she should be worried, but seeing Eric sleeping calmly was comforting. He promised everything would be all right, and as far as she could tell, it was. She was relatively sure she wasn't dead, she was warm, and he was here. She would have time to ask questions later.

Eric opened his eyes, slightly groggy. It took him a moment to recall where he was, and then he jolted upright. He berated himself for dozing off. He had wanted to stay awake in case she woke up. He wanted to explain everything so she wouldn't be worried.

At his sudden movement, she propped herself up, her eyes not even attempting to mask her concern. The radiant smile that brightened his face at seeing her wake put her anxiety to rest. He impulsively embraced her and laughed, embarrassed by his actions and yet relieved. He held her small hand in both of his, thrilled at its warmth and the color in her cheeks.

"How long have I been asleep?" She asked.

"Well… it's hard to tell here, but I'd say about two and a half days." He squeezed her hand, unable to stop smiling. "Perhaps it would help if I explained everything a little…"

"After you fell asleep, the Opera Ghost came. He… offered us refuge, at least throughout the duration of your sickness. I told him we had no money, but he said it was alright. Our payment will be our singing."

"Our singing?"

"Oui. We shall sing for him. And, what's more, we might be able to stay off the streets for good. He said he could get us a job!"

"A job?! Where?"

"The Opera House. Where we are now - well, what we are underneath. We are at a house by the lake."

"The Opera…"

"He said he would teach us, and seeing us perform would pay back everything. He asks no more of us, but that we sing, with all our soul, in the Opera."

"The Opera! Singing in the Opera! Oh, Eric, think of it! We'll work so hard with him, and he can teach us… Oh! We'll be the envy of Paris! None shall look as pretty as us!" Her eyes sparkled, dazzled by the possibilities miraculously placed before her. No longer would she be a street rat. She would be a star.

Eric stood, his excitement bubbling over.

"I'll tell him right now!" He cried.

"But Eric, you can't."

"Why not?"

"Because there are no doors. We're stuck."

***Friendly reminder to r/r!


	5. Angel of Music

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

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Chapter 5: Angel of Music

Eric walked to the wall at the foot of her mahogany bed.

"There is a door, but it is hidden. Not from the outside, it's just that there's no handle - ah!" A door swung wide open, and he flashed a confident grin in her direction. "I'll be right back!"

She returned the smile, settling back in to wait. Her eyes fell upon a tiny beside table, a charming lamp shedding a soft light onto her pillow. And next to it was a gilded silver brush and mirror, which she hadn't seen before. She carefully picked up the brush, noting there was elegant, spidery cursive worked into the design. The mirror was shaped in a manner reminiscent of a heart. Each curl and spiral in the design had its own beauty; no two were the same. It looked like a handcrafted good from one of the street vendors in the marketplace.

The door opened, and she was surprised to see the Opera Ghost. He was dressed in black formal evening wear, his white mask refreshingly contrasting against the darkness. He even wore gloves, accenting his slender and graceful fingers. Much like Eric's fingers were. He stood very straight, and curtly inclined his masked face, acknowledging her.

"I am much relieved that you have joined us, Mademoiselle. I am afraid your friend was distressed over your poor health. I… hope you might overlook my previous conduct towards you." He seemed genuinely saddened over that last statement, apparently unable to keep a hint of contained anger from creeping into his voice unconsciously. She managed as bright a smile as she could muster.

"I don't think I can thank you enough for your kindness, Monsieur… Opera Ghost." She paused for a moment. "I have no honey cakes to make up for the trouble I've caused." She could not tell by his expression whether he remembered the incident. He shifted uncomfortably, it seemed to her, and remained silent, his hands clasped behind him.

"Monsieur, I was just curious… What does this read?" She lifted the brush, leaving the mirror facedown.

"Christine," was the reply. He did not even bother to look; he knew what she referred to.

"How did you…" She paused, her bewilderment bordering fright. "I mean, who told… he…"

"They were made that way." He replied, a defensive tone creeping into his voice. After a moment of silence, a childish curiosity replaced the hostile edge.

"Is… that your name, Mlle.?" She nodded.

"Oui. Well, in a manner of speaking. I mean, when I was found by Jacques, that's what he called me. He said it was pretty."

"Indeed, Christine is a beautiful name." He paused, deciding to take on a lighter subject. "I would be correct to assume your friend informed you of our bargain?"

"Partially."

"Ah, I see… You may stay for as long as you wish until you have recovered. Once you are well, you must audition for a spot in the chorus at the Opera. I have no doubt that there will be a place for you. I will instruct you in music if you or I feel such lessons are necessary. However, once you leave the confines of these apartments you would be wise not to mention me or my home. It will only bring you disaster." He unclasped his hands and reached for the invisible door. "Sleep well." He said, his voice empty of all emotion. Then he left.

* * *

Erik paced his room, his fingers involuntarily twisting themselves around each other as he walked. He could not remember a time he had been this disoriented, this out of control. His impulse was to hang the two brats; he felt an irrational need to lash out at someone. They had disrupted his peace, his suicidal solitude. They had waltzed into his home without him knowing of it. How could he let them slip through like that? He had constructed these tunnels under the Opera when he had been a contractor… he had made these walls empty, his mysterious construction allowing them to carry sounds back to his lair. He knew when his domain was being invaded, and he always purged the tunnels when intrusions took place. How was it that he had overlooked the two?

He was irritating himself with his pacing. He sat and leaned forward, his bony elbows resting on his knees, his slender fingers tapping against each other as his chin lay on his thumbs. He tried to think, settling himself down as best he could. The reason for his agitation was hard to locate; his mind was in turmoil.

He could picture it all, as clearly if it was happening again. Raoul stood there, powerless, waiting for Erik to finish him off. Then there was her, Christine Daaé… her eyes, her hair, her voice, the soft but sweet scent that accompanied her presence… the mere thought of her intoxicated his senses. He knew that if he could only have her, he would need nothing else in the world.

He didn't have her. Raoul did.

She had begged with Erik, pleaded with him. She had cried, she cried over her beloved Raoul's fate. And yet, if she had not loved him, it wouldn't have come to this. If she had only loved Erik instead…

It wasn't as though he hadn't given her a choice. If she married him, her lover would live. Otherwise, it was guaranteed death. It had been so easy to threaten the man he hated… so easy to break her heart. Christine had cried said she hated him.

All he had ever done was love her, and she hated him. All he asked was for someone to look beyond his hideous face and cradle his mutilated soul. He often fancied that his heart was as deformed as his horrendous countenance, capable of nothing but hatred. He found a sick pleasure when he realized he was able to frighten anyone he chose. The satisfaction was temporary though, and no matter how hard he tried it always fell short of camouflaging the loneliness constantly devouring his insides.

After Christine Daaé had run from him, he had tried to hate her. He was sure that it would be like hating everyone else - and hadn't that come naturally? There wasn't a time he could remember being unable to bring out his darker side; he had never failed yet. Until now. Things would have been simple if he had managed to be disgusted by her. It would have been black against white, night against day, cut and dry - in terms of cliché images. If only that was how things really worked.

Instead, he found that each day cried out for her presence, every moment shouted for her voice. It had slowly driven him mad, until he could swear she had returned. He could hear her talking; she was in the room where he had left her, tied to the chair so she wouldn't leave him…

She had wanted to kill herself. She would rather be dead than be with him. Perhaps the reasoning behind her actions hadn't sunk into his mind because he was so used to the dark thoughts himself. She had told him before that his face did not scare her, and he had so foolishly believed her. He clung to that lie, more convinced of its truth than of his own existence. Perhaps that was why he did not see the fear with which she looked at him - because he chose not to see it. He so desperately needed to be loved he was willing to overlook anything. It was revolting. Pathetic, even! But it was true, and he ignored every telltale sign.

The silence had been broken. Like a gunshot through a window of glass, the shards had pricked him painfully as they fell about his feet. He had been so sure that Christine Daaé was the one who could keep his steel-framed glass barrier down. Instead, she had turned out to be like the rest; she put the shards back together after she had destroyed all the boundaries. Piece by piece, sealed by her rejection, it was an intricate puzzle he was sure no one else could ever hope to pull apart again. He had become accustomed to the pain, the anger, and the loneliness. It was a routine, a part of his life that he could not separate from any longer. Like music, it had become welded into his character. He had been so convinced of this that he was willing to die. Something had finally given way inside, permitting him to terminate the suffering once he knew he would never be able to escape.

He had never actually carried through with the plan, though he had truly meant to. If only that glass wall she had resurrected was still intact. Deep down, Erik had known from the moment he heard those innocent voices that his tunnels could not be permanently silenced just yet. No, for in the brief moments of unrestrained song, he felt the driving need for love and affection resurface from the depths he had buried them. Hell-bent on his path of self-destruction, he had not wanted to admit that something in the two orphaned children had struck a chord within him. Hadn't he been abandoned? Hadn't he felt battered by the abusive world around him? It was as though he was watching his life unfold before him, a miniaturized version. Two lost souls had met by chance, and this time, there was no third party to stand in their way. Even the names were perfect: Eric and Christine. And when they sang, the Angel of Music himself could not help but pause to listen.

Of course, these children did not know what a horror he was, although they had previously had a taste. The two had already ventured into his lair once, and despite his harsh welcoming, they returned when they were most vulnerable. Erik knew they had not come deliberately seeking his aid; it was when Eric accepted the offer that had touched him. The children had not been afraid to come before him, baring all their weaknesses. They had not shied away from him then, and he did not repulse them now. As long as they never discovered the secret that lay beneath his mask, he could foresee no trouble with them. All he wanted was to have a pupil again, someone who would revere his work and admire his talents. His only request was that he was allowed to watch them progress, watch them grow, and hope to absorb some of the beauty of his creation. It could never make up for the ugliness he embodied, but perhaps his beautiful creations would love him for the work he had devoted to them.

Erik stood again, his pacing now giving way to clarity and understanding. It was becoming as logical as his love for Christine Daaé had been; he now visualized the result he wished to accomplish at the end of his struggles. He felt comforted that he had found a niche in which he could place himself; he was sure it would fill the continuously gaping void of loneliness.

Just as he had been the Angel of Music, he planned to transform into another heavenly figure. Only this time, he would become a Guardian Angel and protect the two, while the rest of the world turned its back.

* * *

Eric burst into the room, breathless and excited. She cried out as soon as he entered.

"Did you get in? Did you make it?!"

"Yes! Yes, I made it! This has got to be the happiest day of my life!"

"Oh! How wonderful!" Her joy overwhelming her, Christine broke down into a fit of coughing. Eric quickly handed her the glass of water on her bedside table. She drank it eagerly, helping to control some of the spasms. He pulled a stool to her bedside, absent-mindedly holding her hand in his own. It was strange how the clothes he was wearing turned him into a completely different person. He was wearing formal clothes, something she had only seen through shop windows. His black coat was buttoned, his white shirt pressed to perfection. He even wore black shoes to match his ensemble, and his skin glowed with cleanliness. His fingernails were white; his hair combed and washed. It was only the sparkle in his eyes that carried the same vibrant spark it had before.

"Ah, Christine, I cannot begin to TELL you what it is like. You sing from your heart and the words just rise effortlessly to your lips. You can carry to each listener a different interpretation of what you are singing; they are in your control, they bend to your will! You can make the audience cry, laugh, or dance. There is nothing in the world that can compare, when you have the skill to make a person feel everything at once!"

"Oh, Eric, I'm so happy for you. I wish I could have been there!"

"It's alright, you will be able to see me when I have practiced enough to perform. Ah, it's too bad you are still sick, you should be in the Opera now too - I won't be able to visit you anymore."

"Why not?"

"Well… rehearsals run all day. By the time we are finished, it will be really late. The managers made special arrangements for me to have a room all to myself, so that I can sleep there. I'm not sure how, but they found out I came off the street, even when I auditioned dressed like this." His enthusiasm faltered, his expression slowly growing serious. "You'll need to hurry and get well. I'll miss having you around."

"Oh, don't worry!" Christine assured him. "I'll be back on my feet in no time!"

In less than two days, she fell sick again.


	6. The One Who Waits

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

****

Chapter 6: The One Who Waits

Erik had brought her the dinner he had cooked, as carefully and deliberately as everything else he did for her. Christine only managed to get through half before he noted the paleness in her face and her lack of appetite. He watched her suffer through one more bite, debating whether to ask if everything was alright. To his knowledge, he hadn't poisoned anything. He abstractly wondered if his cooking was really that bad. She swallowed, pausing for a moment, before she timidly said,

"I don't feel so well…" No sooner had she spoken than her stomach convulsed, her hand rushing to cover her mouth. Without a word, Erik retrieved a tiny bucket from the other room. When he re-entered, her panicked eyes watched him move to place it in front of her. Wordlessly giving his permission, she leaned over and let herself be sick.

Once Erik brought the now cleaned bucket back, she was sick again. She then lay down, still feeling slightly nauseous and too weak to move.

Throughout her entire ordeal, Erik did not speak a word. It was oddly gratifying to watch her suffer. It made him feel as though his own anguish had been embodied in this physical illness, and was finally being purged. He cleaned up after her, and placed the empty bucket at her bedside. The cold silence in which he worked offered no comfort; yet it clearly contradicted the gentleness in which his sickeningly pale hands caressed her forehead in search of fever. The air of brooding dejection, accompanying him endlessly, evaporated as a wet cloth was put across her brow. He even carried in a fresh glass of water now and then, breaking his habitually overbearing indifference. Once he felt as though she had been sufficiently tended to, he remained in her room, feeding the fire when it became too low, and sitting silently on the edge of a chair. Despite his intimidating presence, Christine felt comforted by his being in the same room as she. Now that Eric was not allowed to leave the Opera House, she was alone, except for this stranger taking care of her. His white mask blurred as her heavy eyes shut; the purity of it striking out the black he wore and the orange of the fire. His corpse of a body was bathed in snow and she could almost swear that as he turned to look at her, the mask disappeared and she saw the face of an angel.

* * *

Erik sat glaring at the sheet music. It was wrong; he didn't like it anymore. It had been fine until the very last section, the final triumphant swell that would drown out the human consciousness with a mixture of emotions so powerful it would be overwhelming. But no matter what chords he chose, what manner it was arranged, it remained blatantly wrong. It refused to tie the piece together, what had been written in those blood red notes no longer held. It was like a glue that had lost its adhesive properties. With a snarl he tore out the page, ready to begin again. It would be the fifth time, and it was getting rather late.

He let his hands float over the ivory keys, his eyes closed. He waited for his instinct to prick his fingertips when they glided over the right notes. He played the introduction, hardly aware of the music that tickled his ears. His deformed brow creased in concentration as his fingers quicken their pace, the pulsating of his heart hastening the tempo. He was vaguely noting that the thirty-second notes there would have to be changed slightly - more shrill, more anxious - he would come back to them. His left hand pounded out the lower notes, a driving force throughout the entire piece thus far. He reached the point where he had torn the page out and bravely forged onward. His fingers danced frantically, his breathing heavy as he reached the pinnacle - and then it was lost. All the energy, all the emotion slowly drained from the piece as he continued playing. There was that gap, that moment of imperfection, that ruined everything he had worked so hard to achieve. He slammed his bony wrist on the top of the organ, his frustration building. He would get this right; he would complete his _Don Juan Triumphant_ once and for all! Correctly, this time…

As he sat in silence, he became aware of a faintly muffled sound coming from Christine's room. Light and delicate whimpers, as though anything louder would break her in two. He sat there, enraptured. It was so different from his harsh, ragged sobs… the sobs that spewed forth whenever his tormented existence suffocated him. He picked up his mask and ventured from his room, wondering if she was going to be sick again. She had been alright the entire day, but sometimes things worsened as night fell.

He softly opened the door to see her brushing away the remainder of her tears and sniffling pitifully. He approached her and she looked back at him, unashamed of her puffy eyes and the redness in her face.

"What's wrong?" The emptiness with which the question was asked was unintentional, and yet he had no desire to attempt to be compassionate in any way. She did not seem particularly offended, at any rate.

"I was lonely." She looked at him, her eyes tired and glassed over, like she was intentionally hiding something. He did not reply, so she continued. "I couldn't fall asleep…"

"I apologize, my playing must have been disruptive. I should have taken that into account."

"No, no, it's not that. I just… want Eric here, that's all." He made no reply to this, apparently pondering some dark thought. She averted her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"He would tell me stories, you know, to pass away the time, and then sit here until I fell asleep. I miss him." She finished, simply. He stood silently for a moment, before he deliberately made his way to her bedside, elegantly sitting himself beside her.

"My child, you do not understand the true feelings of loss and loneliness. There's many a soul who claims to be lost and alone, but it is nothing - absolutely nothing! - compared to what I have heard." He paused, thoughtfully. "It's the story of a man, a man who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else. His name was Erik."


	7. This Was My Life

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

****

Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

****

Chapter 7: This Was My Life

The Ghost leaned forward, his voice low. She thought it odd that despite his closeness, she could not see his eyes.

"Erik was born cursed. He was deformed - even his mother could barely stand the sight of him. Ah, to have everything he had, and yet his mother would not love him! He had a wretched childhood… you would understand this, wouldn't you? None wanted him, so he fled. He joined a freak show, but they caged him, starved him, beat him. He was just as human as you or your friend - yet they treated him as some filthy animal. In time he made his way to Persia where he entertained the sultana, at first with trivial magic tricks he had learned. He was an intelligent man, always anxious to show off. It was a chance for his ugliness to be ignored and the beauty of his mind to shine through. His tricks gave him attention unlike the fear that painted people's faces when they saw him. However, his talents were abused, and he so willingly overlooked it. He was coerced into killing people for the sultana's amusement. Torture chambers and a Punjab lasso… Why he did not flee before they used him, I cannot tell you. Perhaps he felt as though he finally had a place among these people who did not see the deformities he hid. Perhaps he thought he could live a lie and maybe it would come true. Maybe someone would learn to love him."

She looked at him, her eyes filled with a great pity, accompanying tears on the brink of falling. He did not feel as though this part of the story was the sad one, but he knew that once a person begins to cry, it is much easier to continue than it is to stop.

"I cannot imagine what it must have been like to… kill… If I had been there-"

"Ah, it is so easy to say that one would be more sympathetic than everyone else, more understanding. Erik can tell you that it is not true. All whose eyes fell upon him have been haunted by the horrors they have seen. Even those who claimed they would love him were not prepared for what greeted their eyes." He pulled back involuntarily, giving himself a mental shake. "But you have interrupted. Do you wish to have a story or not?"

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry…" She snuggled under the covers, enraptured by the spell his melodic voice cast over her. It put her at a strange sort of peace, as though her being was placed in his care, and her heart was in his hands, waiting for him to pluck and play upon the strings of her soul. "Please continue…"

"Erik eventually was forced to flee, or else he would be killed. He knew too many secrets, too much information. The most efficient way to keep him quiet would have been to kill him. However, a government official saved his life, warning him of the danger and fairly kicking him out the door before it was too late. I often wonder, if Erik had been allowed to leave of his own will after hearing the plans if he would have. I don't know - I don't know, but I think he might have stayed. It is difficult to live in a world that did not want the talents he had to offer. It would have been an easier suicide, of sorts. He would be killed by them, all he had to do was stay. But that was not the path his life was to take.

"Instead, he continued his travels until he ended up in Paris. And while he stayed, he chanced upon meeting an angel, the most beautiful woman in the world. She was from another world, a being so pure and innocent, Erik could not help but desire to have this immaculate, virtuous woman as his own. He did not think he ever could; she was perfect and he was the very epitome of a beast from a nightmare. Yet he felt if he could have her, then he would have more than the world could ever hope to obtain. He would win her while she was under the impression he was as beautiful as his mind. She did not resist as he careful constructed a dream around her. The tiny lies he wove cushioned her, and she leaned on them for support when horrible things began to happen. Erik did terrible, terrible things when he was displeased. He became a madman… or so they all said. He would stop at nothing to make her love him. He was the devil…" The Ghost's voice faded out to silence. He was not looking at her, he was looking at nothing. She could not see his eyes, but it had become evident in the tone of voice that he was being pulled back into the past, reliving whatever had befallen the cursed man and the beautiful woman. She ventured a question into the silence.

"Did he really… do bad things? Was he really like they said?" There was a moment of thought, before a slow response was drawn out.

"He was not. At least, I do not think he was. He was frightened, frightened she would not love him in return. He responded the only way he knew how. When people wanted him to act a certain way, they had always threatened or beaten him. They had never asked for his thoughts on any matter, they had never been understanding, compassionate in any form. He was unfamiliar with love, with how one was supposed to love, because he had never been on the receiving end. When he became worried she would not return his feelings, he thought he could force it out of her.

"There was a rich, handsome man, who was also in love with the beautiful woman. His name was Raoul. He did not like Erik, and Erik did not like him either. It became evident to Erik that this man, this Raoul, was slowly unwinding the dreams Erik had been building for her. He became desperate, and violent. She had seen his deformities - she would never return to him. She would be content with Raoul; she had professed her love for the handsome young man many times, when she thought Erik could not hear her. But he heard. He heard and he cried.

"He tried to make her love him. He kidnapped her, and threatened innumerable innocents and her beloved Raoul if she did not marry him. Erik thought that perhaps if she lived with him, she would grow used to his presence. Or at least she would learn not to hate him. He had become quite adept at hiding his deformities. He was sure everything would be alright. He did not want to hurt anyone - well, he did admit he wanted to tear Raoul apart piece by piece - but he did not truly want to hurt all the innocents he had threatened. He was not really hateful, merely childish. He had never really learned rationality, because he had never been nurtured in an environment that would permit him to grow and mature like any normal child. Instead, he was constantly pushed away and unwanted, and so he thought that was how the world was. Death did not hold the same horror it did for others, for he thought that Death would be relief, an escape, where none would run from his ugliness, where none would hate him. He could not understand this will to live that everyone else possessed. And he knew, he knew very well that he would embrace Death if she abandoned him.

"He told her to choose. To choose the freedom of death or to marry him. He watched her cry, yet he felt no pity. He only felt the emptiness in his soul, the growing dread that she did not love him as much as he loved her. He waited, balancing himself precariously on a thread of hope that she would still consent. In fact, as she neared him, he became sure she would… she promised he wouldn't be alone anymore… and then…'Poor unhappy Erik!'… her tears… they fell on his face…"

He caught himself; his voice would betray him yet. But to remember her face so breathtakingly close, to remember the feel of her lips upon his own… it sent a chill down his spine and his stomach hurt, aching with the loss of the angel.

"She cried with him, and he could not fight her any longer. He fell to her feet, begging her forgiveness. He insisted she go, that she leave with Raoul and never return to him. Perhaps he had been taught what it was to love, in those few sweet moments of her presence… or maybe he finally understood that the greatest sacrifice he could make to prove his adoration was to free her. It's difficult to tell exactly what caused the transformation, but he was clearly different. He was heartbroken, inconsolably depressed. That was how I last saw him. After that, he disappeared, to some unknown corner of the Earth, where he would curse the woman who shattered his being, and yet cry out for her in his sleep. He will most assuredly live out the rest of his days in torment. It is hard to change the habits of a lifetime."

His sonorous voice faded away, leaving nothing but the crackling of the fire. She lay silent for a moment, content to just think nothing. She could almost picture it in her mind, this man, this Erik, pleading at a woman's feet, begging for forgiveness. It was such a pitiful scene.

"Is Erik dead?" She couldn't help but ask - he had been ready to die if that woman left him…

The Ghost seemed slightly taken aback by her question.

"Inside… he may very well be. It's difficult to say, really. But I don't think he is. Not yet… not yet." She smiled warmly as she snuggled under the covers. Her voice was slightly muffled.

"I would have liked to meet him. I should think I wouldn't be very frightened of him…" She closed her eyes, ready to drift to sleep. The Ghost stood, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"Ah… Erik would give the world for that to be true." He looked down at the tiny child, burrowed beneath the comforter. She was so tiny, so vulnerable… she nearly disappeared under the wrinkles of the sheets. He stood for a long time, watching her methodically breathe in and out. Her blonde hair was spread on the pillow beside her, a beautiful rich golden. She looked like Christine. She was a Christine. He turned away, silently leaving the room.

The fire continued to crackle softly.

* * *

It was dark. So very dark. Why was she out in the streets? It was cold and she wasn't well yet. She was wearing a dress, a green one… or was it blue? She couldn't tell in the darkness. She was running as fast as her legs could carry her… someone was behind her, but who? She didn't know, and it didn't even matter. She had to warn someone, had to tell them…

The was a loud crack and she felt herself falling… faster and faster. Her stomach turned over sickeningly as she was swallowed into darkness.


	8. Virtue of Patience

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

A/N: Poem in this section was written by me, and as far as I know there isn't a poem with these words out there… so if there is, I didn't mean to steal!

****

Chapter 8: Virtue of Patience

She must have screamed. She didn't remember doing it, but she must have. Her heart was beating furiously in her chest, and she was shivering. Whether it was from fear or from the coldness of her sweat she couldn't tell. There was only a faint light from the embers glowing orange in the fireplace. She pulled the comforter around her, feeling the darkness closing in rapidly. The fear, the urgency - it did not depart as quickly as her dream had, and the darkness did nothing to soothe her. In fact, it merely reminded her of the black hole she had been falling in after the hideous crack. Her hands involuntarily wiped her eyes, her mind registering the fact that she had been crying in her sleep. Hesitantly, she lay back down - telling herself it was just a dream. Even so, she felt as though whatever she had been running from was there, still chasing after her, hunting her through the darkness. Beady… beady black eyes staring at her in this room, waiting to reach out and strike once she drifted off to sleep…

She bolted upright, her eyes straining to penetrate the darkness. She slid off the bed silently, pattering towards the invisible door. With minimal effort she managed to trigger it open.

* * *

Erik awoke, his blood run cold. Instinctively, his hands groped for his mask as he sat up. The echo of the shrill cry echoed in his ears, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In the silence that ensued, he became calmer - convincing himself everything was alright. Children were difficult; he couldn't remember being like that. It was a strange feeling, to worry about another person. To care for them, feed them, and to be constantly vigilant, in case something was needed. Between looking out for Eric's interests in the Opera, his own, and Christine, he realized he had less and less time to spend with his reworking of Don Juan Triumphant. His masterpiece, his art, his very life. Blinked away by some helpless children. He felt compelled to work on it, a strange addiction to the work, as though he was a slave to its production instead of the creator. He no longer wanted to work on it, but he was restless if he was not. He turned over, away from the sheet music on his organ, away from the blood red notes he could see and hear even in his sleep.

There was a timid knock on the door. He froze, his heart pounding wildly. Why? Why was he frightened out of his wits by a knock on the door, why was he so intimidated? He knew he should get up, open the door. But he remained still, laying on his side, his back pushed against his coffin of a bed.

The door opened slowly, a tiny head peeking in. He cursed himself, remembering the door was not invisible from the outside. He should have fixed that, a long, long time ago. He cringed as the girl stepped into his tormented sanctuary, her comforter dragging along the floor, the tiny candle in her hand illuminating her face. As she crept closer, he could hear her quiet sniffles, and he could see streaks on her cheeks through the eyes of his mask. Her face was that of pure fear, something he was all too familiar with, arousing a boiling hatred in Erik's heart. Was she going to remove his mask? Did she want to be haunted more than she apparently was? His fear of being discovered clenched his face. He wasn't sure what he would do if she touched his face. Her body was so tiny… if he wanted he could snap her neck in two… Mentally, he gave himself a shake. He wasn't sure what he would do to this girl. It wasn't really important anyway. If she was going to repay his kindness by doing the one thing he instructed her not to, she would pay. He had no tolerance for those who would not respect his wishes.

He watched detached as she stood looking down at him. She continued to sniffle and wiped her eyes occasionally. Her eyes drifted about the room occasionally, taking in everything - the music scattered on the floor and about the organ, the blood red notes, the coffin… Then her eyes shot to the door, as if she expected something to come through after her. She blew out the candle and stood still in the silence, waiting. He heard the clink as it was placed on the ground, and then he felt the comforter brush against his hand. She carefully climbed into the coffin, still sniffling. She curled up in the far corner, trying not to disturb him he supposed. She continued to cry, a muffled sob escaping the layers she had wrapped herself in. His anger had disappeared, unnerved by her curious behavior and her tears. He wasn't sure why she had come here. What did she expect from him? He relaxed from his rigid attempt to remain still. Apparently she had no intentions of disturbing him. He was tempted to tell her to get out, but he was sure she was convinced he was asleep. The mask did not allow her to see his two different eyes, and so she probably assumed he hadn't woken.

Erik listened to her crying herself softly to sleep. The sobs ebbed, until her breathing had slowed rhythmically. He carefully sat up and turned his back to her, feeling a faint trace of warmth radiating from her. She was such an odd child…

* * *

Erik looked at her from behind the organ.

"Sharp. Do it again." Christine's face crumbled.

"Again?"

"You will do it until you get it right." He tried to keep his voice from being demanding, but it was difficult. Patience was something difficult to acquire and harder to retain.

She sighed and began the scale again. It had been four days since he had begun teaching her. He had only succeeded in teaching her the basic concepts of the staff and notes.

"That's much better." He said as she finished the last note. "Now, I think you are ready to proceed. You will sing this." He handed her a single sheet of music. "I will play it for you first, and I just want you to follow along." His fingers danced along the organ, tapping each and every note to create a stream of song. When he finished the first section he looked up at her to see her staring at him blankly. He frowned.

"What is it." It was not a question; it was a demand. She blushed faintly, looking embarrassed but attempting to maintain her dignity.

"What does it say?" She held the paper back out to him, waiting for him to take it. But he didn't.

"What do you mean, 'what does it say'?" He demanded. "Can't you read?"

"No." Her voice quivered, feeling his anger and frustration break through his usual calm exterior.

"NO?!" His voice had risen, and she cowered before him. A stab in the heart could not have hurt him more. He looked away quickly, feeling a strange regret for his harshness. He slowly rose and turned back to her, his voice hiding his thoughts.

"You cannot sing unless you learn to read first. It never occurred to me that you might not have this basic knowledge. Very well. We'll start with something simple. Come with me." He turned, starting towards the library. She trailed behind him, the pink not yet faded from her cheeks.

He stood in the middle of the doorway, thinking for a moment, before he dug into one of the drawers in a desk sitting on the left side of the room. He flipped through several piles of papers before settling with five he had pulled out.

"This will do for now." He turned and handed them to her. "You will learn to read while you learn music. They walk hand in hand down the path of life - you cannot articulate expression without either portion. Music is the foundation of the song, and the lyrical content is the walls to the building that houses human thoughts, feelings…" They had come back to the practice room, and he flipped out his coattails as he sat down.

"Now, we shall start with this." He picked the first one off the five he had chosen. "'A Picked Violet', that is what we shall begin with. Come here." He motioned to a spot next to his bench. "You will read the words in your head as I tell them to you. You will repeat after me. Then, I will play it - you will sing it. I will not repeat words - you will listen and you will learn." His stern voice left her no choice but to nod her consent. He leaned forward a little bit, examining the words and the notes that accompanied them.

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them. They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path. They may not last long enough for you to see, but they will come back another spring." He stopped, and turned to her. "Read it."

"There's a hidden path of violets if you can look… uhm… for… them?" Her eyebrows were peaked together, her uncertainty written across her face. He sighed.

"_Patch_ of violets, it's _patch_. And that's care, not can. Do it again."

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them." She repeated. He nodded.

"Continue. There's more." She looked at him dubiously and glanced at the paper again.

"Uhm… It's… walked…" She stopped, looking ashamed. "I don't remember it."

"They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path."

"They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path." He nodded, accepting her success.

"Both now."

"There's a hidden patch of violets if you care to look for them. They're hiding from those who walk the trampled path."

"Good!" Her face visibly brightened with the praise. "Now, listen." He played the notes that accompanied it at an easy, slowed pace. "Sing it."

"There's a hidden path of violets

If you care to look for them.

They're hiding from those who

Walk the trampled path."

"You're off on the high note. You're sharp on the B and you aren't convincing me you know where an A is. Do it again." She nodded imperceptibly, accepting the criticism and starting again. This time he nodded.

"Better. Look over those words. Learn them. You're going to copy them down until your hands either fall off or you learn to write." He stood up, grabbing a stack of blank papers and a dulled pencil. "Let me know when you've finished. Until you grasp basic concepts of these words, and how to write them on your own, we shall not continue. I will not have an illiterate child join my Opera." With that said, he turned and left the room.

* * *

Eric collapsed on his bed. He was so tired. Rehearsal had been relentless; even as a mere choral member he was forced to redo his section over and over again. He decided he would perhaps sleep, and then eat. He had no energy left to even get up to get his food. Just as he was drifting off, he heard a harsh voice.

"What are you doing?!"


	9. Adrian

Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

****

Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: I apologize for the delay - it's not much this time around, but I had finals to deal with, so I wasn't able to get much done. More will be on the way shortly!

****

Chapter 9: Adrian

Eric bolted upright. It was another chorus member; a fifteen-year-old called Adrian. His blonde hair was somewhat long, constantly getting in his eyes, so he habitually flipped it away in one quick, fluid motion. Eric supposed with some distaste that Adrian had perfected the flick of his neck by watching himself in a mirror somewhere. The fifteen-year-old had proven his slightly egotistical nature on more than one occasion during rehearsals. Eric had developed a strong grudge against the blonde, but not quite a rivalry. Adrian had been slightly upset that Eric had joined the Opera - to his credit, Adrian had been working furiously to advance through the ranks, but now that Eric had shown up, Adrian felt threatened.

Adrian gave Eric a distasteful look.

"What are you doing?" He repeated, glaring furiously, his green eyes narrowed.

"What does it look like?" Eric's retort was a tad sharper than he intended. Not that he regretted it for a moment…

"Slacking." Adrian sniffed disdainfully, looking down at the dark haired boy. "We're supposed to be rehearsing." Eric blinked, swearing they had just finished. But he wouldn't admit that to Adrian… he would use any ammunition he could get to humiliate Eric in front of everyone.

Eric decided it would be best not to respond. He was far too tired to get into an argument with some stuck-up blonde over whether or not he was slacking. With a dignified silence, Eric walked past the boy, who was a good foot taller than him, and made his way towards the stage.

He peeked in through the backstage door, faintly hearing a piano and voices. He crept through the curtains a bit, trying to get closer. He saw a woman - he wasn't sure of her name, he hadn't seen her much - and a man, Henri, Eric thought his name was, singing a duet to the sole accompaniment of the piano. Eric checked over his shoulder, not seeing Adrian anywhere. He sat down on the floor, listening to the melody and the voices. He watched them practice, their choreographed moves weaving in with the music, each gesture emphasizing the music and the words.

He imagined that it was him on the stage, singing to Christine. The thought made him turn crimson, and he was oddly embarrassed. He tried to concentrate on the song, the words, but they refused to stay in his head as he continually conjured Christine's face. It had been quite some time since he had seen her last. But the opera was due to be performed any day now - there was not much time left to visit. He did not realize he had sighed aloud until it was too late. The woman had turned, squinting into the wings where he was hidden. Not waiting to be discovered, he turned and fled from the stage.

As he made his way through the hallway, he thought he heard a voice call to him. A soft whisper, faintly drifting done the corridor.

"Eric." This time it was more definitive, as though it was coming from behind him. But when he turned, no one was there.

"Eric." Now it came from the other end of the hallway, as strong as before. "It's so good to see you again." From the shadows of the hallway, he could make out the faint outline of a man. Suddenly Eric realized who the voice belonged to: the Ghost. With a trusting smile, he trotted over to the shadow, peering up into the dark eyes.

"Yes? What is it?" The shadow shifted, moving down the hall.

"I want you to sing."

"But Monsieur," Eric jogged a little, to keep up with the Ghost's brisk pace. "Rehearsal was going to start. I was told -"

"You will not listen to them, you will listen to me. Need I remind you who got you where you are today?"

"No, but -"

"Do not worry about them. I will see that they are well taken care of. You need only to follow me." He stopped and turned sideways slightly. "Besides, I thought you'd be overjoyed to see Christine." 


	10. The Lapse

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

****

Chapter 10: The Lapse

Eric fell silent, sometimes barely keeping up with the shadow. He knew he should be rehearsing… he could picture the disdain on Adrian's face, when he finally did show up. But he was going to see Christine-! All else paled in comparison.

As the pair wound their way down through the basements, Eric thought he could hear a voice wafting through the echoing corridors. When he stopped to listen, the shadow admonished him, a sliver on contempt in his voice.

"You've heard arpeggios before, keep moving." Eric jogged to catch up, grateful the darkness hid his embarrassment. Of course he had heard arpeggios, but they never sounded quite like this. The lilting of her voice and the delicate way she sung the pitches made it sound like a crystal wind chime, tinkling in the breeze.

He snapped back to reality as his foot stepped into the water. He turned to the boat, where the Ghost was waiting.

"She does have a wonderful voice." It was not a question, although the Ghost's tone seemed to beg for a response.

"…Has she always sounded like that?" Eric asked, slightly taken aback.

"Yes… although her skills required some cultivating." The Ghost turned to him, a strange light burning in his eyes. "Now do you see, the power I have that those foolish managers have refused to recognize? The genius behind my work?" Eric nodded, unsure of what else to do. The Ghost turned after that outburst, keeping the remainder of his dark musings to himself.

The voice grew stronger and stronger as the two neared the underground layer. The arpeggios ceased, and she began singing a song slowly, the words clear enough to be understood.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the word and I will follow you. Share each day with me, each night, each morning. Say you love me… Love me, that's all I ask of you."

The Ghost had strangely frozen at the sound of the song, and then, without warning, he darted towards his dwelling. Eric watched, entranced by the beauty of Christine's voice, and surprised by the sudden reaction of the Ghost. He finally gathered enough wits about him to disembark and tie the boat up. 

"Anywhere you go let me go too! Love me, that's all I ask of y-" He heard the door slam open. Her voice ended in a squeak, and Eric's heartbeat quickened as he heard the Ghost shouting.

"HOW DARE YOU? THE INSOLENCE! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! NO ONE LOOKS THROUGH MY MUSIC AND SINGS THESE SONGS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! NO ONE! GET OUT!" There was a tiny cry and a loud crack. At the sound, Eric broke into a run. He skidded to a halt in the open doorway, crying out.

"Christine!"

She had her back to the wall; the piano bench lay on its side, cracked open. Sheets upon sheets of music had scattered to the ground, and in the middle was the Phantom. He loomed tall, his black eveningwear ominously glaring in the well-lit room. His silk mask covered his face, but not his rage.

"I SAID GET OUT!" He turned to Eric. "BOTH OF YOU, GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Eric beckoned Christine over, and she inched toward him timidly. When the Ghost did not move, she broke into a run, throwing her arms around Eric and burying her tear-stained face in his brand new jacket. He drew her outside and closed the door, leading her to the wall. They sat down and she cried into his jacket as he silently stroked her hair.

"I- I didn't know he would get so angry… I didn't mean to make him angry! It was such a beautiful song I couldn't help myself!"

"Shh, it's alright. I'll take care of it. Calm down…"

* * *

Eric had no idea how long he had been out there. In the underground passageways, there was no telling whether it was day or night, rainy or sunny. It was always the same dank, miserable, black corridors filled with rodents and lined with cold stone.

He was sore from sitting in the same position, but he did not want to move the sleeping girl. Her head was cradled in his arms, her tiny body pressing against his side as she huddled for warmth and security. The whole passageway had been deathly quiet for hours. He strained every now and again to see if he could hear the Ghost inside, but there had been no noise in so long; Eric was sure he had left.

Eric's senses pricked; he thought he heard a rustle of paper. The Ghost was still there. After awhile, a faint muttering grew in strength, until it was quite audible.

"Look at what you've done to me, Daaé! If you could see me now… you wouldn't want to see me, though, would you? You never did. You never, never did. Look at what you've done to me. I turned on children… mere children! I could have killed her, you know. She's such a fragile thing. A glass vase holding so much talent that she might crack. Just like you. Just like you, Daaé. But you ran away. And now I chased them away. What have I done? What did you make me do? If it wasn't for you, you and your foolish, IGNORANT Raoul… I detest that name; it leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. If it wasn't for you and Raoul… they would have stayed. If you had not sung this song for him, if you had not taken my soul and crushed it-!"

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of the bench being righted. A simple delicate melody was drawn out of the piano keys.

"I gave you my music, made your song take wing, and now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me…" The melody halted, the last note dangling, unfinished.

An eerie quiet settled in once again. Above the lapping water, Eric heard a strange muffled sound, much like tiny gasps of air. He gently leaned Christine against the side of the building and cracked open the door. Through the tiny slit he saw the Ghost hunched over the piano keys, his mask on the bench beside him. After a moment, Eric closed the door and returned to Christine, letting the Ghost cry in peace.

* * *

Erik shook himself, picking his mask off the bench. He felt tired, exhaustion unlike anything he had experienced in a long while. He carefully put the mask over his disfigured face, and placed the remaining sheet music back in the piano bench. It was night by now, he was quite sure rehearsal had ended a long while back. He would talk to the managers. Eric had no doubt returned, late, and it wouldn't have been the first time. The managers would lose patience if he did not instruct them to be lenient.

Erik looked about the room, now immaculately pristine. He could hear echoes of his rage still reverberating in his mind, the small blonde girl pushed up against the wall, her blue eyes staring into his. Begging for mercy. He shuddered, unconsciously surprised that his harsh actions bothered him.

He opened the door, quietly humming the final piece of _Don Juan Triumphant_, still displeased with the ending he had chosen. He stopped when he saw the two children huddled by the door. Eric looked up, his eyes meeting the holes in the silken mask.

"Why are you still here?" Erik demanded. He hadn't meant the words to come out that way, but they had.

The boy looked away for a moment, as if genuinely pondering how to respond. When he looked back at Erik, there was a hint of steeled anger in his expression.

"Well, Monsieur, I cannot understand why you would ask such a question. Why should you care what happens to us? You took us in against your will, and now you are rid of us. Where we stay is none of your concern." A hint of scorn had crept into the boy's voice and a sneer tugged at his upper lip. Erik scowled.

"I was surprised you were not gone by now."

"Did you mean to betray us?"

"What?"

"Did you want to abandon Christine just as Daaé abandoned you?" The boy hissed. Erik's jaw involuntarily dropped. There was no way the boy could know about Daaé; he would have been so young. Then how did he know?

"Monsieur Opera Ghost, with all due respect," the boy began, "the only reason I agreed to this was because Christine was sick. She was going to die just like Jacques! But, you have a way with music that…" Eric shrugged. "I cannot describe it, but I do not think anyone else could have made Christine such an angel."

"Angel of Music…" Erik whispered, hearing Daaé's voice echo in his mind.

"What?"

"Nothing." Erik clipped his voice short. The boy paused for a minute before continuing.

"You made Christine such an angel - I cannot believe that you would just throw out the work you have done and send her back to the street! What did she do that was so horrible, anyway?!" Eric ended in indignation. Erik turned a little, unprepared for the blitz of questions from him.

"She… sang that song and broke my heart, that's what she did." He finally muttered stubbornly. Eric snorted.

"How was she supposed to know that song reminded you of your… Daaé?"

"Don't say that name again, or I swear I will kill you." Erik warned.

"Alright." Eric conceded. "But was it really fair for you to scare her like that? No, of course not!"

"I will not have you telling me how to act, you impudent little boy! What do you know about being alone, lost, broken?!"

"Plenty." The eleven-year-old clenched his fists. "I've been spit at on the streets, kicked against the walls of buildings, and they've thrown stones at me! I've wandered the alleys looking for whatever rotting scraps I can find so I will live to see the next day! I have had the only person who ever cared for me die, and I couldn't even bury him! I didn't know my mother; she was killed in a machine accident in one of those damned factories! I've had my fingers frozen stiff as I tried to keep Christine warm, sleeping in doorways to avoid the snow." A tear ran down his reddened face. "I know what it means to be hated! I know what it means to be alone! I know what it means to hurt!"

Erik stared at the lanky boy in disbelief. Maybe the boy did not know what he was, but Erik did. They had the same troubled look about them, the same tortured minds, the same name, even…

"Perhaps…" He stopped, watching the boy angrily wipe away the solitary tear. "Perhaps I made a mistake." Eric looked away, fighting back the retort he felt on the tip of his tongue. Erik continued. "I suppose… would you like to stay?" Eric sniffled back the drip he felt in his nose.

"You won't yell at us?"

"I can make no promises… but I can try."

"Will you promise that?"

"What?"

"Will you promise to try?"

"…Yes, I suppose I can promise that." 


	11. Opening Night

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

****

Chapter 11: Opening Night

"Box Five, please." Madame Giry looked at the little girl incredulously.

"I'm afraid we do not allow patrons in Box Five… it is reserved…"

"It's alright!" The blonde girl laughed at the older woman's pale face. "See? I have the tickets." She handed the envelope to Mme. Giry, who opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a note, scrawled in red ink.

"Bring me a footstool, and make sure the girl is comfortable. Do not ask her any questions; she knows nothing. I wish not to be disturbed.

-The Opera Ghost"

Madame Giry swallowed and muttered to herself as she went to fetch a footstool. The woman was sure there would be disaster tonight - the Ghost was at his old tricks again - and after business had begun to turn around!

Christine sat down carefully, and straightened her purple velvet dress. She absent-mindedly rubbed a corner of the fabric as she stared at the draped curtains and listened to the orchestra warm up. It was strange to be sitting in an opera house, with a box all to herself and a rich velvet dress hugging her tiny frame. She had woken up that morning to see a note on the fireplace mantle and the dress across the back of a plush chair by her mirror. The note had said to practice her music, there would be no lesson today, and to wear the purple velvet for the opera that night. She had no idea where the clothing had come from - she could only assume that he had bought it as a gift for her. Although the Ghost may never have given presents, tonight was a special night. It was to be Eric's first performance.

The Ghost had also been promising to take her to an opera, so she could understand what a grand thing it was to perform onstage. She had not yet progressed to duets, and the Ghost insisted that singing to the accompaniment of a mere piano or organ did not do music justice. The completed orchestra of harps, percussion, violins, brass and woodwinds mixed with human voices was more intoxicating than the strongest wine, the Ghost would say. She always laughed when he said this, and he would get so angry, telling her she was mocking his life's work. But when she would explain that the analogy didn't help her since she had never been drunk, he would sigh and putting his ruffled feathers back into place. On good days, he might even crack a hint of a smile.

"What are you laughing about, child? Music is a very serious thing, you know!" Christine fairly jumped out of her chair, his voice breaking her out of her reverie.

"Monsieur! I did not hear -" She looked around her, seeing no one. She turned to the sound of footsteps approaching the entrance to the box, but was disappointed to see only Madame Giry coming with a footstool for the empty chair beside her.

"Is there anything Mademoiselle wants?" Mme. Giry asked, still slightly shaken.

"Thank you, but no." Christine beamed at the older woman, who quickly retreated, drawing the curtains to the entrance closed.

"Now let the show begin!"

Christine looked around again for the body to match the voice, but could not find it. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, squinting in the dim lighting. There was a chuckle, not an entirely friendly sound.

"Does my trick amuse you?"

"Not very much…" she pouted. "I can't see you!"

"It wouldn't be much fun if you could, now would it." 

"Are you going to stop hiding? The lady brought a stool for you."

"I know, but I'm staying right where I am. Ghosts cannot be seen in public."

"That's not fair." Christine crossed her arms and sulked, sinking into the soft upholstered chair.

"Of course it isn't." Christine made no reply to this, but scowled all the more.

"Carlotta." The Ghost taunted.

"I am not Carlotta!"

"With that look on your face, you most certainly could pass for the vainest cow to low inside the Paris Opera House!" The Ghost snickered.

"If you're going to call me Carlotta, then you have to tell me a story tonight!" Christine retorted indignantly.

"Oh goodness, no. I will not be telling any stories tonight. I used up all my delicious Carlotta tales."

"You will too! Or… or… you'll regret it."

"I'm sure I will."

A hush grew over the crowd below as the orchestra began to play the introduction. The Ghost's voice was silent and Christine's eyes were glued to the stage from the moment the curtains lifted.

The ladies were clothed in such fine materials, with beads and pearls and diamonds sparkling under the lights. The men wore equally grand costumes, and had hats and canes and waxed mustaches. There were houses and carriages onstage, perfected and painted down to every detail. And the music - the music tore Christine's heart from its earthly dungeon and sent it soaring to the sky on a pair of golden wings. The chorus was filled with boys, girls, men and women, dressed as rich and poor alike, cavorting in the streets of the fictitious city. Then at the climax of the show, the two lovers sang a duet, so pure and sweet that it made her chest ache as she listened. Christine imagined what it would be like to be onstage, singing that duet, intertwining her voice with a deep, rich, masculine one, soaring high above the rafters of the building…

The curtain fell and the applause filled the domed roof. Christine did not stay to wait for the curtain call; she wanted to be first in line by the dressing rooms.

"Madame Giry!" Christine called, a sense of urgency in her voice. The older woman, who was waiting just outside, snapped back the curtains, half expecting a dead body to be lying on the floor. When she assured herself there was none, she turned her attention to the little girl, trying to hide her shaking.

"Can you take me to the dressing rooms?" Christine asked. Mme. Giry nodded and led the girl down the steps to the door leading to the adjacent corridor.

"You will have to exit this way if you wish to go back out the front, Mlle." Madame Giry explained. "The door at the other end of the rooms leads out to storage and then a back exit. The main entrance is the best way to go."

"Thank you," Christine smiled. "I'll be fine waiting here. Thank you very much." Madame Giry left the girl, muttering to herself as she made her way back up to Box Five to remove the extra footstool. When she stepped in, however, she spotted a box of candies on the rail of the balcony. With a smile, she picked them up - it was the same tart sweets the Ghost used to give her so long ago… perhaps he wasn't going to cause mischief tonight after all.

Christine tried to peer through the crowd, looking for Eric's dark hair and merry eyes. She saw the diva, Carlotta, who the Ghost had pointed out to her, and stifled her laughter. She did indeed resemble a cow. She could see the dancers, milling about in their excitement, and the ballerina, Meg Giry, shooing the younger ones into their wing of dressing rooms. She saw Henri, the one who had sung the divine duet, greeting two men, shaking their hands and accepting their congratulations. Christine decided not to interrupt.

There was a blonde boy making his way through the crowd, seemingly alone. No one stopped to talk to him, and he wove in and out of the clumps of people, purposefully making his way to his dressing room. In his haste, he nearly stumbled over Christine, who was still looking for Eric.

"Are you lost, little one?"

Christine turned to the boy and said nothing. Her mouth hung slightly ajar; she was surprised at being addressed and irrevocably shy in front of strangers.

"N-no, Monsieur, I'm just waiting for someone."

"Ah, I see. Well then, have a good night." His green eyes smiled as he turned and left, as quickly as he had come. Christine watched him with bewilderment, his graceful, fluid movements resembling a cat as he moved about the throng. She did not recall seeing him onstage, but there was a mask in his hand - yes, that would explain it. His costume was that of a nondescript chorus member and she slowly lost him in the sea of people. But before she did, she fancied he had turned back, to look for her…

"Christine!"

Eric's voice was filled with such surprise that she could not help but grin.

"You were wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I hardly sang at all!"

"Learn to take a compliment, Monsieur Eric, it's a valuable skill!" She teased, enjoying the redness creeping into his face. "Our Ghost was pleased."

"Really? What did he say?"

"When you earn his silence, you earn his approval." Christine mused sagely.

"I suppose you're right!" Eric laughed, his excitement from the performance still coursing through his veins. "Let's go see him!"

"But how do we know if he went back yet?" Christine's face clouded over with doubt.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Where else would he go?" Eric scoffed, tugging at her hand. Christine smiled.

"That's true; ghosts cannot be seen in public."

Eric shot her a strange look, but smiled to match the grin she wore.

* * *

Erik sat on the bench, glaring angrily at the music before him. What had he been thinking, when he gave this opera to the cast to perform? That was easily answered, clearly he hadn't been thinking at all. To put such music before an audience when it was painfully obvious that it was not yet perfected had been utter madness. Then again, he had been seized by that madness often back in those days, and to be this careless about such a masterpiece was every bit within reason. His state of mind had somewhat stabilized now, now that he had stopped his foolish vying for unrequited love.

He picked out the chord again: a minor third, perhaps, might suffice. He jotted down the notes on a blank piece of paper, unwilling to let the thought escape from him. His slender fingers cast their spell over the organ and he played the preceding melody, his hands flying over the ivory keys, evoking the horribly menacing sounds he composed. He inserted the newest addition of notes, dreadfully pleased with the result. He had fixed the problem in that bridge…

He searched through the loose papers, cursing his own sloppiness. He had meant to put these sheets in order, but in his concentration he had managed to muddle them altogether again. He threw up his hands and muttered an exclamation of disgust, before stalking into his room to search for the paper he needed.

Christine opened the door quietly, hearing the Ghost cry out for the "infernal paper" to show itself or he would merely throw it in the fire to "roast in Hell's fury". Eric had already returned to the Opera House, for it was quite late. They had heard the sound of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and wisely decided not to interfere with his creation. Instead, they roamed the streets in their fine eveningwear, recalling the places they used to haunt. Earlier, Eric had managed to steal a rose off an admirer waiting in line for one of the older chorus girls. Out underneath one of the streetlights, Eric made a huge fuss, pretending to be one of the characters in the opera, presenting the rose as a token of his "undying and eternal love". Unfortunately, he was not as good an actor as he thought, for it was only halfway through his monologue when he burst into laughter. She had joined him gleefully, her tiny hands cradling the blood red rose, her voice sounding like the tinkling of delicate little bells.

She quietly closed the door and tiptoed over to the organ, peering at the red notes scribbled across the paper. She sat herself down on the bench, feeling incredibly small in front of the large instrument. She placed her hands tentatively on the keys, picturing the Ghost's pale white fingers resting on the same spot. She always watched with fascination when he played; he made it look effortless. Her tiny hands, however, could not reach all the notes needed for these ominous chords, which she supposed was all for the better.

Forgetting the Ghost was still shouting away, attempting to cuss the particular paper into his sight, she gently pressed down on the keys, shocked at the loud noise that filled the room. She instantly pulled back her fingers, not realizing the deathly silence that filled the dwelling. She placed her fingers on the keys again, following the Phantom's music as best she could, slowly playing the dark and foreboding chords.

The Ghost stepped from his room, watching the girl with an intense concentration, watching her hands lean over the keys and hearing his twisted opera sing from underneath the fingertips of an innocent child. He stared with a frightful fascination as she began to speed up, the chords coming to her faster, and the grand finale about to be reached…

But she stopped three chords short of where he had ceased writing. There was a delicate pause, the air filled with a throbbing swell of emotional strength and power. He felt as if he were standing on a precipice, waiting to fall.

Then, out of the silence, a quiet, sweet melody danced from the organ. It was a simple line; Christine picked out the notes carefully and deliberately, with only her forefinger, leaving a moment for thought between each note. The Ghost felt a flood of utter despair and sadness sweep through his chest, as if a dam had burst. This was it; this was the ending he had so long searched for. It was nothing more than a snowflake drifting on air, a feather tickling the senses, a string of singly jeweled pitches that a music box would tinkle. Yet it held command over the entire score he had written. She repeated the simple line again, adding a ritardando spanning about eight beats before she held out the last note, building an elementary arpeggio in as the final chord.

As the final ringing of the notes disappeared, Christine had the growing sensation she was being watched. A chill ran down her spine as she turned to see the Opera Ghost, staring at her with the darkness of his room framing his lean body. She watched as he slowly reached underneath his mask and wiped his face, his hand emerging wet from what she supposed to be tears. For a moment, he said nothing, merely gazing upon her with an air of utter loneliness encompassing him. She dared not move, her heart crying out at his tears. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Would you play that again?" She looked at him, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

"But… you're crying." She bit her lower lip, her eyes watering at the sight of his sadness.

"Someday you will understand, child, that not all tears are of sorrow." He stepped over a pile of his discarded sheets. "Play it again." With a doubtful look, she complied, starting from the same place she had before. The Ghost felt the same surge of emotion, then the pause; the first gentle note popped the balloon of passion, extinguishing the flame that had been burning, dousing the ire and hatred with a pure melody, evicting the fury of moments before, and ending as quietly as it began.

She finished and turned to him expectantly, her eyes begging for him to say something, anything. He breathed in deeply, as if trying to take in the sweetness in the music through the air. He gently pulled her off the bench and set her on her feet.

"It is late. You should run along to bed, little one." She did not move, however, but continued staring at him. He met this with a silent query, so she whispered timidly:

"Monsieur… ghosts do not cry." His head jerked back slightly at this strange revelation. The girl looked at the ground, rubbing her toe into the floor. "So… that means you aren't really a ghost."

"That's very sound reasoning." He responded, feeling a strange sense of uncertainty bubble inside of him.

"If… if you aren't a ghost… then… don't you have a name?" Christine looked at him; her blue eyes filled with worry and, oddly, fear of betrayal.

"A name?" He repeated, his voice quivering. Oh, where was his mind when he needed it? Filled with quick retorts and evasive, mysterious musings, it had abandoned him when he needed it most. She couldn't know, she couldn't know! What would she do, if she knew who he was? Oh, he should not have told her those stories, those stories about Erik. She would know, she would realize he was just a hideous beast, and she would run, just like everyone else. Even Eric - the boy was so very like him - even Eric would turn against him, if he knew the truth. The truth…

The Ghost smiled and knelt before Christine, his slender hands reaching for her. He gently cupped her face in his long fingers, his thumbs persuading her eyelids to drop. His musical voice began to croon to her.

"Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn't what you want to see…" He carefully picked her up, humming the tune as he carried her to her room with the heart-shaped mirror engraved for Daaé. By the time he lay her down, the child was already fast asleep.


	12. The End of the Opera Ghost

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: For all the loyal reviewers: Thank you so much for your encouragement up to this point. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I appreciate it! I hope you all have grown to love my new characters, because I cannot guarantee a lot of Erik in the upcoming chapters - however, Raoul and Christine WILL show their face! So stick with it and I promise you it will be rewarding in the end!

****

Chapter 12: The End of the Opera Ghost

Christine awoke in a sweat, tormented by the same dream that had haunted her sleep during the first nights of her stay at the underground home. In the dream, she called out for Eric, trying to warn him, the men were after him. They were coming after him for… well, she confessed to herself, she didn't really know what. But they had been chanting his name, running after her, demanding that she divulge his whereabouts. She had flown through the streets of Paris, crying out that she did not know, and if he could hear her, he should run before it was too late. There was the familiar crack before the blackness seized her.

When she awoke this time, she had not screamed.

Her knees were weak as she made her way to the invisible door. She held back her sniffles, making her teary-eyed journey to the room of the Ghost as she had countless nights before. He had always been awake, she realized, his breathing irregular and his muscles tense, as if he expected her to attack. He never spoke nor touched her, but left her to cry herself to sleep, and then wake alone in his room as if he had never been there. However, in its own strange way, his presence was soothing, that of a protector. Whenever she ventured into his domain, the nightmares vanished, leaving a blank canvas of sleep for the remainder of the night. She supposed he did not mind these late night intrusions, else he would have put a lock on the door. She had grown to learn that he was not as articulate as his well-spoken manners would have her believe. Often, when he said nothing, he was in agreement.

The door to his room opened silently, and her bare feet made no noise as she slipped inside. Her eyes fearfully darted about; she was still quite ill at ease. Her jumpy eyes rested upon the white mask lying on the floor next to his bed. He never left his clothes strewn about; he was quite fastidious in terms of personal neatness. She crept closer to where he lay on his side, shielding her candle so the light would not wake him. She supposed he had exhausted himself with the completion of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

She could see his chest rhythmically rising and falling, his lax breathing indicating he was indeed asleep. As she inched closer, it dawned on her that his countenance was mask-less… naked. Her eyes drank in every detail of the pale face: his elegantly defined cheekbone and his clean-shaven chin, the blood red lips and the thin eyebrows surmounting dark lashes. His hair, always slicked back to make wearing the mask easier, fell down to his cheekbone, straight as a stick and thin as thread. She stared at this face in wonder. Why did he hide the truth when the truth was such a beautiful thing…?

She did not notice her hand was falling as she stared, the light growing in intensity until suddenly, the man's eyes flew open in shock. He lurched, involuntarily rising upward, his eyes filled with terror.

It was then that she saw the reason for the mask. His golden eyes bore into her soul, accusing her of breaking her promise to never look upon his face. Her own eyes were glued to the other half, a ghastly white scarred mass, glaring indignantly. The tissue was uneven, the scar drawing parts of his face thin and then inflating others. She stepped back, speechless at having woken him, and terrified at seeing his face. He had watched her reaction, and she could see the rage, boiling equally fierce in the different colored eyes. Before he could speak however, she opened her mouth to say something, anything.

"You're…" He flinched, knowing full well what to expect, and braced himself.

"…Erik?" She finished innocently, making the connection. At his silence, she offered a timid smile. "I knew you weren't a Ghost."

"I'm worse than a ghost! Oh, I'm far worse than any nightmare you ever had!" He spat out maliciously. He did indeed look terrible, the way the candlelight flickered across his disfigured face. But at the mention of nightmares, Christine shuddered, remembering the reason for entering his room to begin with.

"No," she said slowly, frowning in thought. "In comparison, you aren't that scary." Her eyes roamed his face analytically. "No. Not at all."

Erik moved his mouth wordlessly. This little girl did not scream, did not cry out, did not call him a monster. He did not know what to say.

"Y-you lie." He sputtered. Christine shook her head, shaking a little.

"Well, you're a little scary." She conceded. "But not… terribly." He watched her put the candle on the ground and wrap her blanket about her shoulders tighter.

"Do you mind if I sleep here?" She asked. "If I go back… they'll get me." Her eyes welled with tears and she sniffled back the drips in her nose.

"Stay… here? With me?" Erik asked, bewildered. She merely nodded.

"I'm scared."

"Of who?"

"I don't know. They're after Eric." Her eyes searched his for an ounce of compassion, a slice of pity. She found none, as he was still too lost to understand what had just happened. She ventured to say a little more.

"I feel safer here…" Erik continued to stare. Safe, in a room with a man who had such dark thoughts, who had murdered, who threatened the woman he professed to love? And this child dared to feel safe in his presence…

Hardly aware of what he was doing, he patted the coffin bed next to him. Christine obediently blew out the candle and clumsily crawled next to him, curling up in a little ball of comforter against his chest. He tried to squirm back, but he was already up against the wall. It felt odd to have this little child rolled up next to him, and he tried not to infringe on her space. Once he resigned himself to being unable to avoid contact with her, he tried to relax a little. But he felt the little bundle shaking, muffled sniffs escaping the layers of blanket every now and again. He sat up, looking down at the little girl.

"What's the matter?"

"Y-you won't let them catch Eric, will you?"

"Of course not. You needn't worry." He heard her choke on a tiny laugh.

"Y-you'll scare them away?" Erik blinked, caught off guard yet again. He knew by the laugh that she was referring to his hideous face. He fought the urge to laugh along with her; for whatever reason, her poking fun about his appearance did not incite his rage. It reduced him to feeling… human.

"Yes…" He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly to his breast. "I'll be so monstrous, I'll scare them all off!" He felt her body tremble with a small giggle before he released her. He flipped over so they were back to back, reminiscent of fellow conspirators surrounded by enemy forces.

"Go to sleep, child. Your Guardian Angel is watching over you."

* * *

****

7 years later

Christine jumped, startled by the knock on her dressing room door.

"Come in." She continued brushing her blonde locks as she gazed into the full-length mirror. The door opened, and whoever was there remained silent, until Christine put down her brush and turned.

"Yes? Oh, hello Eric!" She smiled and gathered the skirt of her gown in her hands, gently moving towards him.

"Christine." He said matter-of-factly, as a greeting. "I might as well get to the point; I was wondering whether you had any plans tonight after the show?" Her brow instantly creased in agitation.

"I was going to go out…" Eric laughed at her expression and gently rubbed the space in-between her eyebrows with his thumb.

"You shouldn't make such a face!" He teased. "It might get stuck like that, you know, and then what would we do!" She pouted and brushed at her skirts in indignation.

"I'll not have you tease me like that!"

"Oh, come now, don't be so spoiled." He wrinkled his nose as he smiled. "If you make plans more important than me, I can't be held accountable for what I say next!" He sauntered past her and stopped by her dressing table, staring intently at an engraved mirror on the countertop. _Christine._

"Was that all you came for?" She inquired. "Because if it is, then I'll be glad to escort you out, with a swift kick on the backside for good measure!" She grinned. "If you taunt me, I can't be held accountable for what I do next!" Eric turned with a raised eyebrow.

"Is that so? What makes you think I wouldn't enjoy that?" She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Actually," he turned away from her again, tracing the letters on the back of the mirror. "There was something else."

"Oh?" She tried to put on an air of indifference.

"Yes." He looked at her solemnly for a moment, before his boyish grin escaped his control, shamelessly appearing on his face. "I'm going to be moving out!"

"Moving out?" Christine was bewildered. "To where?" He beamed and pulled out a small key from his pocket, dangling off a rather short chain.

"I've saved enough to rent a room in the boarding house down the street. Of course, that's only until I scrounge up a little more and get a better place all to myself." He chuckled at the look of astonishment on her face. "Aren't you happy for me?"

"Tremendously!" She exclaimed. "I… I just can't believe it!" He smiled, his tone becoming slightly more serious.

"You know my door will always be open for you. If the Opera becomes too much or Erik starts one of his tirades, you can always knock and stay the night."

"But that would be scandalous-!"

"Of course! Why else would I suggest it?" He laughed again, as her face turned a light shade of pink. "Oh, don't worry, no one will care. I'm sure there are much more interesting things to gossip about, and no doubt the foolish dancers will be preoccupied with other silly matters." He smiled gently. "Don't worry, I understand if you choose not to come. I'll only cry myself to sleep every night!"

"Oh, will you stop!" She gently slapped his arm and waved him off, moving back to her dressing table. "I've got to get ready!"

"For what?" He snorted, backing off to the door. "A handsome gentleman is going to waltz through this door and spirit you away for a night in the city?"

"As a matter of fact… yes!" She smiled to herself, feeling excitement bubbling inside of her. "Although I doubt he will waltz in…"

Eric blinked and took another step back. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the ground in confusion.

"…I see. Well, forgive me for intruding. I'd best be on my way." He did not look at her, unwilling to let her see his emotions splattered across his face. She did not respond, however, and a swift glance up confirmed that she was no longer listening, her humming and brushing and vivid imagination drowning out all consciousness. Without another word, he closed the door and walked away.


	13. For Whom the Bell Tolls

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: I have never seen Les Mis, but apparently, great minds thing alike. And I understand that "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is already the name of either a book or a poem (I have not read it, thus my ignorance on the subject) - you'll see why I named it this at the end of the chapter!

Who is Christine's suitor? What will Eric do when he finds out? Read on to find out, for this is when the fun really begins!

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Chapter 13: For Whom the Bell Tolls

"Those look absolutely delicious!" Christine felt her mouth watering as she stared through the window.

"Pick one!" Adrian smiled. "I'm feeling generous - whatever you want."

"Oh no, you don't have to -"

"No, I insist!" He looked over her shoulder into the window. "This is the best pastry shop within miles; you have not lived until you've had one of their sweets!"

"Well…" She acquiesced. "I think I would like that one…" She pointed to the back of the case.

"Excellent choice!" He said. "That happens to be my favorite."

"You're just saying that!" She smiled. He laughed.

"As usual, you're right. I actually like that one, with the almonds." He moved to the door and held it open for her.

"I'll wait out here." She waved him on, continuing to look through the window. Her eyes followed him as he went to the counter. His gestures were so graceful and his movements so fluid. His green eyes sparkled with laughter, even when his lips did not make a sound. She turned away, not wanting him to catch her staring. He made her feel so secure; his soothing presence and his easy way of talking kept the evening lively and in constant motion. It was all she could do sometimes to keep up with him. Despite his voluble nature, he listened when she spoke, paying close attention to what she said. Everything seemed to come naturally to him, and it always seemed as though he enjoyed making her the center of the world. She leaned against the window, smiling faintly into the night air.

"Here you are," Adrian carefully handed her the wrapped delicacy. "It was all I could do not to eat it myself." Christine laughed.

"A gentleman to the end, are you?"

"But of course." He smiled. "You don't mind walking back, do you? I think it's rather nice out - unless of course, you'll catch cold?"

"No, I would love to walk back." She smiled. "You don't need to treat me like a piece of china. I won't shatter."

"Well, I must beg your forgiveness, then!" He apologized. "But I'm sure you understand when I say that beautiful things do not stay that way unless treated correctly." Christine felt a blush creeping up her neck.

"Well, I… I thank you for your concern, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

"If you believe so, then that is proof enough for me!" He offered her his arm, and she took it, grateful to be able to face forward instead of looking at him. Knowing his green eyes were upon her made her feel hot and embarrassed, heightening her consciousness of her actions. She stumbled on the uneven cobblestones, and felt her face flare when his hand steadied her.

They walked in a growing silence, which had not touched the two since he had knocked on her door earlier that evening. The quiet was satisfying to her senses, and it gave her a chance to gather her wits about her once again. She could not understand why she was so flustered - this was not the first time Adrian had taken her out, and the other times she had been so calm.

"Christine…"

"Yes?" She answered immediately, her nerves rattled.

"I have a question."

"Then ask it, by all means."

"Well, I hope you don't think I'm being too forward… but…" For the first time, she saw his face wrought with concern. "You don't have any… benefactors, do you?"

"Benefactors?" She repeated, confused. "I'm afraid I don't understand…"

"Christine, I know you're not a fool, and you know what I mean. Don't toy with me!" He pleaded.

"You mean…" Her eyes grew large in shock. "Do you mean to ask if I have any… _gentleman_ providers?" He avoided her sparkling eyes.

"Well… yes, I am." Tension filled the air in the split-second of silence before her laugh splintered Adrian's anxiety.

"Goodness no! Whatever gave you that notion?" Adrian's face flooded with relief, and his lack of composure was evident.

"Well, I… I suppose… It was only natural that… I mean…" She turned to him and placed her slender finger across his lips, smiling gently at him. His inability to speak for once was so endearing; it was empowering to have this blonde man captivated, his eyes pleading for her to say something.

"You don't always have to talk, you know." She whispered. "Walking alongside me is enough." She took his arm and started moving again, Adrian silently accompanying her. His willingness to do her bidding tickled her insides, and she could not repress the constant smile that rose to her lips.

"I merely thought," Adrian tried to defend himself. "I merely thought it highly unusual that a woman so… new to the Opera would already be holding principle roles."

"Are you implying I'm not worthy?" Christine bantered.

"No! No, that's not what I meant at all! I think your singing is the most divine sound to ever grace my ears! I did not intend to insult your talent in any way. But," he lowered his voice. "It is well known that others have connections with extremely wealthy patrons."

"Yes," Christine agreed wryly. "It is too well known amongst the little ones."

"Well, then you can see the reasoning for my anxiety." Adrian stated firmly.

"In order for you to be anxious, Monsieur," Christine smiled coyly. "You would have to be afraid that you were losing something." Adrian stopped walking, and turned to her, searching her face.

"Mademoiselle, you do a wonderful job hiding your cunning mind." He said softly. "I had more faith that you would know full well what I was afraid to lose."

"Perhaps I do know." She hunted his eyes as she murmured her response. "But I think it would be best if you simply told me."

"I do not want to say anything that is unwanted."

"What makes you think that what you might say would not be reciprocated?"

"Experience."

"What could have happened to make you think like that?" She mused, her face filled with sorrow. He averted his eyes.

"It is more along the lines of what did not happen." He smiled to himself. "A father's disappointment is always a wonderful way to build confidence, isn't it?"

"Your father…?" She gently clasped one of his hands in her smaller ones, holding it close.

"Yes, my father." He breathed in deeply. "The father that never wanted me to learn music. That told me if I left I could never come back." He stopped as he saw Christine's face fraught with pity. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone on like that; and you, with no parents…"

"I'm fine." She insisted, still wearing the worried look on her face. "It is you that concerns me."

"Don't waste another thought on my troubles." He fought his anger to smile weakly. "After all, if I had never come here, I would not be blessed by such a lovely woman holding onto my hand and shedding tears over me." He carefully wiped away the pools of water beginning to collect under her eyes. "Don't cry, you'll make your pastry all soggy." She looked down and laughed, her voice slightly muffled.

"I did not mean to upset you." He tried to comfort her, drawing her close, forgetting the rules of society. He rested his head on top of hers, gently rocking her in the shadows of the night.

"I only wish…" She tried to start, but her voice was too inaudible when she spoke into his jacket. He released her carefully, and she smiled into his eyes. "I only wish that life wasn't so difficult all the time…" He embraced her again, chuckling into her ear.

"Life could never be better, Christine, as long as you're standing here beside me."

The cathedral bells thundered out the hour, startling the couple into reality. Christine gasped as she realized what time it was.

"Oh no!" Her eyelids fluttered as she looked about frantically. "I had no idea it was this late!"

"Is everything alright?" Adrian asked, a tint of concern in his voice.

"Papa will be so angry with me!" Her fingertips rested on her lips, her mouth slightly agape in horror.

"Papa?" Adrian questioned. "I thought your parents were dead?"

"People call God their father, don't they?" Adrian nodded, still not understanding what she meant. "Well, he certainly didn't marry their mother, but God is their father." Adrian shook his head.

"You aren't making any sense, Christine…"

"That doesn't matter." She gathered her skirts in her hands and began to walk faster.

"Christine! What's the matter with you?" Adrian persisted, genuine worry and confusion overwhelming him as he hurried to keep up with her.

"I forgot I told Papa I'd be back… I was to have a voice lesson tonight…" In her haste, she nearly tripped, but Adrian's hands flew out to catch her.

"Christine, please… Can't you explain to me…"

"I have to hurry, he might still be there! I don't want to disappoint him."

"Who is he? Is he your instructor?"

"Yes, yes." She hardly knew the words coming from her mouth; she was so distracted.

"He can come back, then, he won't be angry."

"I believe you said 'Nothing is worse than a father's disappointment'?"

"Well, yes, but that's not the same."

"In this case, it is! Oh, Adrian, he's all I have to guide me. Without him, I'd be lost like a tiny boat in the waves of a storm! He might as well be my Papa, because he took care of me for so long…" They had reached the Opera House. She stopped to turn to him, her voice beseeching. "You don't need to understand right now, it will all make sense. But now I need to go and see if he is there. I didn't mean to break a promise."

"Sh, I'm sure it will be fine." Adrian comforted her. "It was an accident and I'm sure he'll understand." Her hands shook and her eyes darted frantically towards him.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes… Christine, why are you so frightened?"

"Because… I don't want to let down the people I love. I feel so guilty. After they've already hurt so much…"

"You need to rid yourself of that guilt, or it will be the death of you!"

"I know, I know. That's what Eric says." Adrian's mind jumped at the mention of the name. However, he wisely decided not to dwell upon it.

"Everything will be fine, Christine, calm down."

"Alright, alright… I am calm…" She smiled childishly as she turned to go. "…Thank you, Adrian."

"Wait." He reached out, his hand gently holding her back. "Before you go… it occurred to me I never answered your question."

"My question?" She repeated.

"Yes. What I was afraid to lose… is standing in front of me." She turned and grasped his hands.

"I know." He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, before she smiled and disappeared behind the great Opera House doors.


	14. Damage That Cannot Be Undone

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: I must confess I know close to nothing about Opera. I know general music stuff, but that's it. SO because I know nothing about Opera, I had to write my own song for them to sing because I don't KNOW any that they could sing. I made up my own Opera, okay, so don't flame me for being a moron and enjoy. Also, you better like this song cuz they're gonna sing it in the next chapter too. Okay. Now you can enjoy.

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Chapter 14: Damage That Cannot Be Undone

She made her way to the end of the dressing rooms, until she reached the "haunted" one. The little dancers believed it to be terrible luck to any who stepped foot inside Christine Daaé's old dressing room, but upon the Opera Ghost's request, this was where she was to stay while she performed at the Paris Opera House.

Christine closed the door to her dressing room, unnerved by the silence. She had hoped he would be there, to greet her and then reprimand her. But he was not.

"Papa?" She whispered. No voice spoke out from behind the mirror to allay her trembling. She cleared a spot on the dressing table and put the pastry down, promising herself she would come back to it later. The mirror glimmered in the dimly lit room, and she stood directly in front of it, asking again.

"Papa… are you here?" She felt despair welling inside of her when there was no reply. Her fingers carefully felt around the mirror edge until she triggered the mechanism. If he wasn't going to speak to her, then she was going to go speak to him. She grabbed a candle and began to make her way through the passages.

When she reached the lake, she could hear music drifting across the relatively still water. As she carefully poled her way to the opposite shore, she tried to decipher what the music was. She had never heard it before, which meant he was composing. Yet, he had finished Don Juan Triumphant so long ago… what could he possibly be writing now?

She carefully disembarked, attempting to keep the hem of her dress out of the murky water. As she approached the door, she could hear his voice, powerful and commanding, a pure force of emotion and perfection.

"Close your eyes, and let music set you free!" He cried, before there was a quiet scratching on paper. This would be as good a time as any to knock, and so she did.

"What do you want." The masculine voice on the other side demanded, irritated.

"Papa, it's me… Christine." A moment of silence on the other side of the door, then,

"Come in." The door swung open silently at the pressure from her fingertips.

"You missed our appointment." He said sullenly, refusing to look away from the piano where he sat.

"I know, Papa, and I'm sorry."

"Are you really? What an interesting concept. As if apologizing for gallivanting across the city with a young man when your career is at stake will somehow remedy the damage that has been done." He shook his head.

"Papa, my career is not at stake! You said you were proud of me! I have the lead role!" She cried indignantly.

"Do you know how you got there, child? You have yet to prove yourself. The managers only placed you there because I demanded it of them. If I had not, you would be lucky to have a principle role at all!" He stood up from the piano bench and turned, his mask ominously black. "You ungrateful women! After all I do for you, and you still spurn my efforts! The human race would be better off without your petty ingratitude."

"Papa!" She cried, her soul crushed. "Papa, how can you say that? I thought… I thought I was doing well… You said so yourself!" The tears began to flow; she could not keep her emotions under control any longer. They had weathered such a whirlwind of sensations that they burst like a flooded dam. "And I AM grateful, Papa, I am! I know that without you I would be in some godforsaken factory or dead, I KNOW that!"

"You say you know and then you run off with that damned fool instead of singing!" He roared. "Women are all the same! They won't stay with poor Erik; no, they want their handsome young man in all his rich finery. Well, I tire of you foolish women and your useless prattling. If it weren't for the singing lessons, you wouldn't come to see me at all, would you?" Christine wiped back her tears. "Damn it, woman, ANSWER ME!"

"If you treat me like this, of course I wouldn't!" She screamed in despair. He began to advance upon her, his eyes glowing beneath his mask and his rage swirling about him like winds of a hurricane.

"Get out of my house." She took a step back as he drew near with all his furious anger. "Get out! Until you appreciate everything I've done for you, I don't want to see your face! GO!" She turned and ran from the room, slamming the door on her way out. The quiet water listened to her sobs and the steady lapping slowly comforted her. Her hands were shaking so that she could not muster enough strength to push off from the shore and begin her journey to the other side. She tried to calm herself, and somewhat succeeded. As she boarded the boat to cross the lake, she could hear Erik's voice shouting at the piano, his uncontrollable rage getting the better of him once again.

"Foolish women! Or is it I who is the fool? Daaé, you'd be so proud of her. She broke me just like you did. But even after all these years… After everything you've done to me… Is a man weak when he cannot help but love the woman who has tormented him? It doesn't matter; I must finish this… for my love, my love of music…"

He continued to compose, the rest of the world dissolving into mere nothingness. Without a sound, Christine pulled herself onto the tiny boat and began to pole her way back across the dark water.

* * *

"You're late."

The choral master looked at Christine reproachfully.

"I'm terribly sorry." Eric could not help but glance at her; she said each word with such despair and heaviness. He really did not want to look upon her face, not after he knew where she had been. Out again, with Adrian. Perhaps there had been a fight? The thought was somewhat amusing, and he found himself cheered by the prospect. Her eyes were dark, as if she had not slept very well. He looked away, knowing that soon enough he would have to face her, no matter the pain it put him through. The duet was becoming a problem for him; how could he sing to a woman who he hated and loved at the same time? Questions, questions. He was full of them. But the choral master did not want questions; he wanted results. Otherwise the managers would shove him out onto the street.

Eric knew Firmin and Andrés were nervous. Their apprehension fairly emanated through the air of the Opera House, and it was no small wonder. This was a widely anticipated show, and the two leads were younger than the little Meg Giry! Any manager in their right mind would be biting their nails to the quick with anxiety. But the demands of the Opera Ghost could not be ignored.

"Shall we begin then?" The choral master seated himself at the piano, flipping his coattails in one curt motion. Eric nodded, and he turned to face Christine.

Her skin was pale, her lips a deep red in contrast to her white complexion. Her shoulders sagged, despite her attempt to look dignified and aristocratic as the daughter of the baron. Eric stood tall as well, retaining the posture of a military officer who was about to leave for war. He nodded at her, and she painted a coquettish smile on her face. But there was no meaning behind it.

"And what, pray tell, is the occasion for such finery?"

"I leave tomorrow morning."

"You're… leaving?"

"We received the order today. All the preparations have been made. Now, there is just to wait."

"How easy for you to say. You do not have to stay behind."

__

You can't stop the world from aging

I can't stop the days from passing

How can I forget everything that has been?

Maybe where you look is not the answer

Why shouldn't we find another way?

Please don't think me selfish when I say

I want you to wait for my return

Leave the candle in the window to burn

Just wait for me as I will wait for you.

A noble promise from a true gentleman

But what if you arrive upon Death's Door?

Who then will I have cherished my heart for?

I could wait forever and more

If I knew my heart secure

An eternal promise for all the world to see

I will wait forever and more

If I may keep your heart secure

So I ask you now if you will marry me?

Just wait for me, as I will wait for you.

"End scene." Eric muttered, relieved that it was over. His relaxation was shattered when he heard the choral master slam his fists onto the piano keys.

"Horrid! Those notes are not naturals, mademoiselle, yet that is how you insist on singing them. And you, monsieur, are slowing this down to a funeral procession! Lord above! Grant me patience, for I have no time for this foolishness! This song would be more romantic if there were two dead fish on the stage. Come back to me when it sounds like music, or your understudies will take the part!" He stormed out of the room in a huff, cursing about the incompetence of children.

"A funeral procession, is it." Eric scowled darkly, as he watched the choral master depart. "The procession will be for him if he does not watch himself." Christine pretended not to hear him, although her frustration was evident in her facial expression.

"The performance is in a week, is it not?" She asked.

"Exactly seven days," was the reply.

"That does not give us much time." Eric did not dignify the conversation with a response.

"Perhaps," Christine ventured into the silence, mustering enough energy to make the effort. "We should practice a little more."

"Is there anything else you'd like to point out that's already blatantly obvious?" He snapped. Despite her usual sensitive attitude towards such remarks, she ignored the acidic comment.

"Can you meet me on the stage after dinner?"

"Why not? My time is none but my own."

"We can practice then." She turned and walked out of the room, leaving Eric to wonder, against his will, why she was so distraught. In the future, he decided it would be prudent if he showed a little more sympathy to whatever situation she had found herself in. 


	15. I Will Wait For You

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

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Chapter 15: I Will Wait For You

Eric stood on the stage, looking upwards into the theater seating. The chandelier was dark; the only illumination came from the backstage work lights. The dim beams sparkled on the ornate chandelier, which glittered like eyes watching from the depths of the night. Despite its beauty, the light fixture was a concern for many patrons of the Opera House, ever since the old one had come crashing down on some unsuspecting soul. Erik had often retold the event, with a strange mixture of sadness and glee. The moment the chandelier plummeted had been a great triumph, but, if Erik's memory served him correctly, and in all likelihood it did, the Phantom's victory was at the price of a poor woman's life. Erik never really stated whether or not the death had been accidental - surely any human with a brain in their head could tell that such a gigantic piece of metal would be deadly if loosed. Yet, Eric had begun to believe it was entirely possible the Phantom had overlooked the potential casualties. There were times when Erik was so childish, like he didn't know any better. His fits of rage and his silent submission to make people happy had become less frequent as time passed, almost as if Eric and Christine had remolded his personality to an extent. Eric idly wondered how he had been when Christine Daaé had been around. Was the chandelier an aberration, or had the Phantom merely become tamer when the two children were placed under his care? If it was the latter, Eric brooded, then he had most certainly made an error when placing his life and Christine's in the care of a madman. But then again, responsibility and care giving had strange effects on people… it could make even the most immature grow up. And Eric would know - for he had learned what it meant to be responsible after Jacques's death. Well, if Erik had calmed because of he and Christine, then it was all for the best.

Christine's footsteps broke Eric's musings. He turned to watch her, noting her cranberry gown enhanced the fullness of her lips, and the blue of her irises. Her blonde hair cascaded about her shoulders, and her face wore an exhausted expression. Much like the one he had seen earlier, he realized.

Her eyes met his solemnly.

"Let's begin." She took a deep breath and smiled up at him. "And what, pray tell, is the occasion for such finery?" She bantered unenthusiastically.

"I leave tomorrow morning." He replied cautiously.

"You're… leaving?" She said, in the same tone she might have used to ask about the weather.

"What's wrong?" He asked wearily. This wasn't going to get anywhere…

"That's not your line." She tried to protest.

"I know. I answered your question, now you answer mine." His eyes remained glued to hers.

"That's a little unfair, don't you think?" She muttered.

"What's wrong?" Repeating the question only made her turn away, refusing to look at him. He persisted. "You're terrible at hiding it, and I would like to think I know you well enough to see when something is the matter." There was no response. He crossed his arms. "I can wait."

"He yelled at me." Eric felt a glimmer of hope ignite.

"Who?"

"Papa." Eric did not let his disappointment show through, but instead, prodded further.

"Why? He's been keeping his temper recently, he must have a good reason or…"

"He did." Christine cut Eric off, and she took a moment to gather the right words. "He… doesn't think I can do this."

"You're lying." Eric's eyes were narrowed, analyzing your face. "He wouldn't yell at you for that. What did you do?"

"What did I do?" She glared at him. "What do you mean, what did I do? You know as well as I that he can be so irrational and unreasonable sometimes, and he always jumps to conclusions about what you do and don't do and works himself into such a state that you can't even get through to him!"

"You're the one who is working yourself into a state."

"How can you say that?" Her indignation rang out through her objection.

"I'm telling it like it is." He snapped. "So unless you tell me the truth, I'm afraid I can't help you." Her mouth opened to contest his statement, but she could not. The gaze that had been burning through his face shifted to the floor.

"I missed his voice lesson."

"Why?"

"Can't you come up with anything better to say?"

"You're avoiding my question," he answered. "And you know it." She bit her lip, and nodded.

"I forgot the time and I missed it."

"What were you doing?"

"I… was out with Adrian." A stain of guilt had embedded itself in her voice, and she refused to look at him when she said it.

"Oh." Eric tried to sound nonchalant, tried to sound unemotional. He supposed it worked.

"And just because I missed one - only ONE! - Papa got angry and told me I was no good. He said I didn't deserve the part!" She stamped her foot, as if emphasizing the statement.

"Perhaps he was just hurt. He'll get over it." Eric soothed.

"No, no, he was very angry… he swore at me and he said… not to come back."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it…"

"He did." Christine insisted.

"Well then… what can you do to change his mind?" Christine was silent. "I think you can do whatever you set your mind to, you know. I have faith in you, alright?" Eric smiled as convincingly as he could. He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid he would not be able to take it.

"Eric, I don't know if I can…"

"Sh, that's no way to talk. I'll be right there every step of the way, whether you like it or not. You'll do fine. Look at me." His hand moved her chin, and he waited for her eyes to meet his. "You're going to be the most charming baron's daughter the audience has ever seen. All you have to do is pretend to be in love with me - and don't offend me by saying that's impossible!" He grinned sympathetically. She cracked a smile. Dare he test his good fortune?

"I've never let you down before… you can trust me." He didn't want to pull his hand away from her beautiful face. If only he could keep his thumb on the tip of her chin…

"Well, let's get started then." He moved away, standing tall and giving her a quick wink. The result was a genuine smile on her lips. She battered her eyelashes.

"And what, pray tell, is the occasion for such finery?" Her voice lilted, adding a delicious sarcasm to her words.

"I leave tomorrow morning." He said sadly, turning his head slightly away from her.

"You're… leaving?" The shock and distress in the voice made Eric's heart skip a beat. It was so… authentic.

"We received the order today. All the preparations have been made. Now, there is just to wait." He sighed quietly, letting his shoulders show his depression, but keeping his face emotionless. 

"How easy for you to say." She cried out in despair. "You do not have to stay behind!" She took a step towards him, the movement coaxing him to look into her angelic face.

__

You can't stop the world from aging

I can't stop the days from passing

How can I forget everything that has been?

Eric had never heard her sing as if she was crying for help, pleading for mercy, begging to be set free of her internal torment. She was giving herself over wholly to the music, to the emotion, to the character. He moved forward to meet the wave of craving that had flooded his senses, clasping her hand in his as he began to sing.

__

Maybe where you look is not the answer

Why shouldn't we find another way?

Please don't think me selfish when I say

I want you to wait for my return

Leave the candle in the window to burn

Just wait for me as I will wait for you.

She looked at him with such sadness, as though he was asking for the impossible. Her face was brimming with a strange sort of vulnerability, as she took hold of his other hand during his plea for her love. It was as though she was truly considering the thought of swearing her heart to be his forever.

__

A noble promise from a true gentleman

But what if you arrive upon Death's Door?

Who then will I have cherished my heart for? 

I could wait forever and more

If I knew my heart secure

An eternal promise for all the world to see

Her voice filled the empty theater with its desire, pulling on every string of his aching heart. He knelt on one knee, and looked up at her adoringly, letting every barrier down that he had constructed to prevent himself from feeling his adoration for her. As she finished the last line, he picked up the crescendo where she had left off, his voice crying out in a genuine plea.

__

I will wait forever and more

If I may keep your heart secure

So I ask you now if you will marry me?

She did not look shocked as he pulled the prop ring out of his pocket - he had thought she would be. The ornate gold band did not quite fit her finger, but she silently let him pretend it did. Her other hand was at her mouth, he assumed, as she was pretending to hold back tears of joy. But only pretending… He kissed her ring finger and the golden band, before looking up for the final line. But he was shocked to see that there _were_ tears in her eyes; as she blinked, a wet streak was painted on her face. Together, their voices melded for the last segment.

__

Just wait for me, as I will wait for you.

He remained silent for a moment after the song had finished, still on one knee. How could he look away when she was standing there above him, the desire on her face directly solely at him - as though he mattered?

She dared not move, and oddly, she had no desire to. Only now it had dawned upon her the strength and power she possessed with the voice she had taken for granted. And the way he had sung… it was as though he wasn't playing anymore, this wasn't a childhood game. Something felt out of place, but comfortably so. Everything was comfortable around Eric, she realized. The peculiar conversations, the constant teasing, the small sacrifices here and there to evict a smile from her… and of course, there was Erik. Why had it never occurred to her before? She could never tell Adrian about Erik - speaking of the Opera Ghost to anyone was forbidden. And Papa was already angry with her…

But with Eric, there was no need to speak of it. He knew, he understood. It had been yet another small sacrifice the boy had made for her, so long ago. If she continued seeing Adrian, she would have to tell him sooner or later - and she wanted to! - or give up seeing Erik again. And then he would have been right. She would have chosen her young man in all his rich finery, instead of staying with the man who had nurtured her starved soul. She dared to call him Papa, when she was willing to fling away everything he had done! But how could she chose, if she loved them both...?

Eric saw the tears in her eyes gathering and quickening their pace down her cheeks. Was this his doing? His anguished heart commanded him to stand and so he did, holding her ringed hand in his and wiping away the tears with a handkerchief he had fished from his pocket. In her blue eyes there was such hopelessness and despair, that despite his conscience's reprehension, he drew her close and embraced her.

"What am I to do?" She whimpered into his shirt. "What am I to do!"

"Hush, you were wonderful, love," he murmured. "An angel…"

"How will I ever explain when Papa forbade us to talk about him?"

"You don't have to explain anything to anyone," he soothed.

"But I do! I have to tell him…" She looked up at him, begging for direction. "How can I tell him about Papa?" Eric tried to make sense of what she was saying. Explain Erik? To who? A thought dawned on him - that there was only one person she could be referring to.

"Yes," Eric finally responded. "You would have to explain it at some point… but, you would lose him. You are aware of that, yes? You would kill him." Her eyes grew so large; they drank in every word he uttered.

"But… he would have you…"

"Oh, Christine!" He embraced her again. "God bless your innocence!" He let her go, unwillingly, but this time he remembered his place. She was not his… and he could never hope for it to be otherwise.

"Christine, love, you must understand." He began. "Erik has lost so much already! You remember his stories; you know what his life is like. He is alone, he has no family, no love, simply us. We are all that is left for him! And you… you are what he lives for." Eric laughed, slightly saddened. "You have seen his face… and you did not turn away. He put everything beautiful he has in you, so that you may share it all with the world when he could not! To turn away now would be a crime so great in his mind that he would not be able to endure it." Her shoulders sank at the thought. "He does not care for me - I am merely a boy!" Erik's laughter was stifled by the silence of the room. "I have never seen his face. I have never tried to. We hold a healthy respect for one another, but that is all. For you, he was willing to be a father. To me… just an older brother, I suppose. He let me cry when I told him about Jacques. He let me cry and he said nothing. But when he thought I was asleep…" A faint smile grew on the young man's lips. "He sang a Requiem Mass."

"You do not make my choice any easier." Christine whispered. "I am tormented with the thought of betraying either of them. How can I turn away from those I love without another thought?"

"You can't." He said with finality. "Choose the love that forever springs eternal… the one who forgives you for being who you are. Take some time to think about it. You cannot choose in an hour. Give yourself some time."

"You always understand…" She mused softly. "Thank you."

He did not reply, simply watched her, and she gravitated toward his gaze. She felt his stare consuming her, as if his eyes were burning into her, but she could not, and did not want to, break the steady rapture of his dark orbs.

"What time is it?" She finally whispered.

"Does it matter?" The tone of his voice fairly begged her to just let the troubles of her mind float into nothing, as if the two of them were the only thing that mattered.

"I… I wish it didn't." She replied honestly, breaking the stare that had devoured them. "But… I already promised."

"I can forgive you this time for having a previous… engagement." He smiled at her softly, affectionately almost. "Just…" He paused, as if building the courage to continue. "Just… don't let it happen again?" It was a question - but the clouded haze of her eyes hid any shock if she understood the enormity of the underlying meaning. Her only response was silence as she hesitantly turned and left.

And he knew where she was going. To see Adrian.


	16. I'm Still Here

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: There are run-on sentences and some bad grammar. It's all under the name of artistic license! The thoughts are meant to flow together because as someone's brain starts running on hyperdrive, they don't usually take time for perfect grammar and sentence variation and all that. Mmk? Don't wanna get any complaints about my abuse of the English language. It's ARTISTIC! ^_^ Proceed…

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Chapter 16: I'm Still Here

Christine glanced enviously at Meg Giry, who was waiting patiently in the darkness of the wings. To see the older dancer so composed while she was trembling did not do much to bolster her flailing confidence. What worried her most was the 'dreadful duet', as she had dubbed it, before intermission.

She jumped when she felt a hand grab hold of hers. It was merely Adrian, squeezing her hand reassuringly. He leaned over her shoulder, whispering what were supposed to be comforting little nothings into her ear. Despite her efforts, she found her mind drifting to Eric and filling with anxiety. She knew Erik would be watching from Box Five, and the managers, and all the patrons…

"Why, love!" Adrian's concern broke her feverish thoughts. "You're shaking!" His arms encircled around her, but all she could feel was a growing sense of nausea. She willed the feeling out of her system, and tried to concentrate on the trickle of words coming from Adrian's mouth.

"…I'll still love you whether you triumph tonight or not, alright? I have every confidence you will be the shining star in tonight's performance, and you'll set everyone talking!" He was so convincing; she almost believed him. He pulled away from her, and she found herself missing the warmth his body provided.

"May I…" She nodded and smiled, cutting off the remainder of his sentence. He inched forward, letting his lips brush against her like a feather tickling her senses. It was so insubstantial that it left her leaning toward him for more, but he had already moved away.

"I will congratulate you more personally after the show, love. At least, I hope that's why you entrusted the key to me!" He squeezed her hand and smiled one last time before he abandoned her to the black of backstage.

Christine finally became aware that the older dancer was watching her with an amused expression upon her lips. The singer felt herself blush a flaming red. How could she have acted in such a manner, in public? Such displays of affection should be reserved for a more private setting…

"You know," Meg Giry smiled. "Beware of blondes. The last time a Christine had a blonde suitor there was a dark man waiting to catch her by surprise." The younger girl blinked, confused by the low laugh that accompanied the odd statement. Meg looked at the girl carefully.

"My goodness, despite your make-up you look as though you've seen a ghost! You have nothing to worry about, you know. I've heard you and Eric practice. You compliment each other well." Meg paused and sighed sadly. "And you sing far better than I could ever dream to."

"T-thank you!" Christine stuttered, mustering a smile.

"For what? Telling the truth?" The dancer covered her mouth to conceal a laugh. Christine felt the urge to giggle rising within her, but she nearly choked as she heard the orchestra begin.

* * *

"I daresay!" Firmin whispered. "This is going splendidly well!"

"Of course it is! Did I not suggest that we cast the two as the baroness and the colonel?"

"You did no such thing! My good man, you were convinced Henri and Brigitte should-"

"I most certainly was not! Eric and Christine, I said, all along. Brigitte is hardly older than the girl - and Henri is too old to play the dashing young man."

"Perhaps you will change your tune with the end of the act. The choralmaster was deeply displeased with the duet."

"He heard them again, didn't he?"

"Yes, and called it a disaster."

"Mother of God… is he out to ruin us?!"

"Apparently the understudies became ill."

"Curses… we could have cancelled!"

"It was nearly sold-out! On such late notice, it would have been dreadful!"

"You're right. Well, here it is, let us hope for the best."

* * *

The curtain was closed and the pit music drowned out the scene-shifters in the background. Christine moved to her place in front of the mirror in her bedroom. She caught a glimpse from Eric, and they shared a smile before the lights came up.

She began her wordless song, accompanied by a solo violin, the vowel sounds lilting from her throat. She was aware this was not her best vocal work, but the knots in her stomach were preventing her from doing much of anything. Her concentration was on keeping the brush in her shaking hands.

The knock on the door was enough to make her jump - little acting was required there. Her hand flew to her breast in a flirtatious surprise at the sight of Eric in his crimson uniform, crisply pressed with gold dangles on his shoulders.

"And what, pray tell, is the occasion for such finery?" It had begun, the strings had entered - there was no turning back.

They exchanged their lines effortlessly, but there was something daunting in Eric's eyes -an unspoken fear, an unnamed desire. His curious emotion permeated every line with a despair that incited her to match his expressions of hopelessness.

She had begun to sing, as if the words were springing from her own heart.

__

How can I forget everything that has been?

How could she forget Erik, and how could she abandon the only world she knew? Yet it seemed that was what was being asked of her. And she knew she wasn't strong enough…

She let Eric's voice soothe her, and he did so with amazing ease. He crooned another possibility - one she had not realized until now existed. His face was so clearly begging her not to leave everything she had for the sake of one man.

__

Leave the candle in the window to burn…

But she could not just abandon him… she loved him! Ever since she had seen him the first time she went to the Opera, she had been drawn to his green eyes and blonde hair. If she gave him up…

__

Who then will I have cherished my heart for?

Her despair built into her crescendo, her voice soared as if it was not even her own, but that of a divine goddess, tearing at the heavens and unleashing retribution inside her very body. Eric's voice cried out, just as tormented, as he pleaded with her, the brass laying the supporting notes beneath him to prevent him from dashing himself to pieces against the rocks of his own torn soul.

__

I will wait forever and more

If I may keep your heart secure…

But hadn't he always? He never asked for permission before, and surely he did not need it now. But he was waiting, she saw through the tears that overwhelmed her. He always had been waiting for her, but he had been standing in the shadows of so many other things that she had overlooked him. How could she have ignored the swelling of her heart when she looked upon his face, her faintness of breath as he touched her hand, this strange warmth she had never felt before…?

He was standing now, searching her eyes. She realized he wasn't supposed to, it wasn't in the script, but she didn't care. Their voices twisted in heavenly harmony, a sweet perfection that made her heart beat unbearably fast.

__

Just wait for me as I will wait for you!

The percussion crashed at the end of the crescendo, and the brass were playing unspeakably loud. She was watching his face so carefully she did not realize he was leaning closer, that his lips were so dangerously near…

His arms supported her as her knees collapsed, drawing her directly against his body. She was his prisoner as his lips covered hers. This was not in the script, but it didn't matter, good God, they were kissing in front of an entire audience! But she didn't care that the patrons had gasped, she didn't care that her hand was uncomfortably crushed against his chest, she was just beginning to taste a fervor and lust she hadn't known existed and then he let go…!

As she regained her feet, she realized the curtain had drawn and the pit was silent. The scene-shifters had come out in the darkness and had begun to move the set about. The crowd backstage met the loud hustle and hubbub of the audience members as intermission was underway. She could not speak, although clearly Eric wanted her to. In her blank mind, she could not find any words, and so turned and fled in the darkness. There was a tiny clink and a golden glint as she escaped. Eric moved and picked up the wedding ring that had slid off her finger.


	17. Building Bridges

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

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Chapter 17: Building Bridges

Eric tried to weave his way through the crowd - he had to get to Christine, if for nothing else, to apologize for his behavior. She had avoided him for the rest of the performance; luckily the duo had not been required to reappear together onstage. His shaky resolve had boiled away to nothing as she made herself scarce; there was no doubt that she was trying to keep her distance from him.

An elbow caught the young man in the stomach, doubling the dark haired figure almost in two. A swift glance upward revealed the sneering face of Adrian, filled with an insoluble mixture of anger and bitterness. The older man looked down at Eric, his voice drenched with contempt.

"Why don't you pay more attention to what you're doing? You're going to cause trouble if you don't watch it." Leaving the thinly veiled threat hanging, the blonde let his green eyes flit elsewhere, and Eric pushed him away. The motion was quite unnecessary, as Adrian had already begun to hunt through the crowd like a tiger stalking an unknowing prey. Of course, there could only be one person he was searching for with such a frantic intensity, and Eric would have pitied the poor soul at the other end of the pursuit if he had not felt the cold metal in his hands. The bitter copper bit into his hands like a venomous snake and he opened his fingers to reveal exactly what he feared. The key to Christine's room, lifted from Adrian's pocket. Clenching his fists, he moved through the crowd with a new purpose - to run.

The two managers, however, grabbed hold of the young man's shoulder and thrust him around, one of them - and for the life of him Eric couldn't remember which - was vigorously shaking his hand. The other was sputtering compliments on the brilliance of the two newest stars of the Opera.

"My good man!" One of the managers blustered. "You were simply marvelous! Never have I see such genius on the stage of the Paris Opera House. You brought all the audience to their feet after your duet with the lovely Mlle.! And to think, some of the patrons dared to claim you were too young to possess the skill and grace of a seasoned performer! My boy, you made them eat their words! I must congratulate you on what must be the best triumph of the Opera to date!"

Eric merely nodded dumbly, only faintly aware that he had switched hands, and now the other was adding in a slightly nasal voice how the duet had indeed been so enjoyable. Drowning in the jumble of incoherent voices, he begged that they forgive his rudeness, but would they be so kind as to excuse him? They obliged, turning to yet another person in the crowd. The richest and finest in Paris were present, to see and be seen, and few heads turned as Eric fled through the great front doors that graced the Paris Opera House.

The night was crisp, but not as cold as previous January's had been. His chest heaving, Eric sucked in as much of the clear air as he could, before his lungs felt they might burst.

"Damn you!" He shouted, to no one in particular. "DAMN YOU!" He unfolded his fingers again, letting the copper key burn into his eyes. "And to think… I believed… your innocence?! You're a FOOL, Eric, just a fool!" Enraged beyond reason, he began to run towards the Rue Scribe passageway. He needed to get out of the streets; he needed silence. A sanctuary. His hands brushed against the rough stone to steady him as he made his way hastily down the steps towards the quiet black water. He paused at the bottom of the stairwell, the black liquid drawing his attention and absorbing his thoughts. The darkness seemed a comfort to him, and he willingly made his way to the wrought iron gate that closed off the underground water system. He opened the bars, listening to the creaking hinges as they squeaked above the sound of the gently flowing water. He stepped in, feeling the world shut out as the gate clicked behind him. Carefully walking with his hand against the rough wall, he made his way down the tunnels until he saw the faint glowing of the lake. Lanterns had become superfluous baggage as he navigated through the labyrinth; living there for so long, the layout had been etched in his brain. The greenish glow of the water ahead made him pause. His own feelings matched the eerie sensation he received from staring at the oddly green water.

Taking his time, he made his way to the small square landing up at the top of the first six stairs. He hung his legs over the side of the staircase and viewed the water blankly. As an afterthought, he dropped the key with an echoing clatter on the stone steps beside him, rubbing his hands together as if to peel off the skin that touched the horrid thing. Cold and rough, the stones he then rested his palms against were unforgiving as he grated his hands back and forth mindlessly. _How could she… after we… after I… I thought…_

He snatched the key back up in his hand in a rage, torn between throwing it in the water and marching to her dressing room to humiliate her. But how could he face her; what would he say…?

Lost in his misery, he did not notice the footsteps that echoed down the stairwell. Only when a familiar voice spoke did he pay heed.

"On the night of what could be your finest triumph, you hide away in shadow?"

"What is there to celebrate?" Eric responded gloomily.

"If I had even but one night to be seen as you are, I would not waste it. Chances like these are few, even for one as young as yourself."

"…Erik, I do not mean to be rude, but… I would prefer…"

"To what, cast yourself into the lake and let the heavy water weigh you down? Sinking to the depths, never to be seen again… you know it would only float back up again and then what?" Eric turned, slightly frightened, but his eyes betraying the fact that the thought had crossed his mind. Erik laughed.

"You can't get away from it all that easily. And wouldn't I know." The cloaked man outstretched his hand toward the younger one. "I have walked every path you could ever hope to avoid, thought every thought you lock away - do not think I cannot see it. I watched her flee from you. I can see the key now. That is what disturbs you, yes?"

Eric hesitantly picked up the key that lay beside him, looking at it distrustfully.

"Give it to me." Erik commanded, the strength in his voice all but steering the young man to drop the copper object into the older man's gloved palm. "I doubt the situation is as horrible as you think. I gave a key, very much like this one, to a woman once." He snorted. "But despite that, she still belonged to _him_."

"You don't understand!" Eric began. "Why, she… she's nothing but… a harlot!"

"… Well, well! Even I did not label her as harshly as that!" Erik mused. "Your thoughts are rather dark tonight; perhaps I was wrong to disturb them? Well, I shall leave you to your brooding. There is a particular young lady I would like to speak with tonight, about her untruthful relations with a particular young man."

"Spare me!" Eric spat out maliciously. "Must you mock me…"

"Why, but I may just be sparing you, boy!" Erik's voice contained a strange humor. "After all, such women do not stay long on this side of Paris - I would think you of all people would know that."

Eric chose not to respond, the reference to his childhood irritating him further. So much time, so much effort, wasted… repaid like this…

"Stay here." Erik commanded. "I shall see what it is exactly that she has been up to. You may be surprised. In any event, do me the courtesy of remaining intact until then. I do not like to waste my time meddling as it is."


	18. Let Me Rest

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Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

A/N: The twist is coming, I beg for your patience. ^_^

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Chapter 18: Let Me Rest

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Where could he have gone? He was not in the hall, nor was he there…Had he run? I deserted him… I don't think he will return… not after I fled…

A quick rap on the door brought Christine back to reality. Trembling still, she managed to speak with only a hint of a quaver in her voice. She dared not hope…

"Who is it?"

"Open the door." The knob turned and stopped with a click when the lock prevented it from moving further. Her heart sunk when she recognized the voice.

"But, you -" Delaying so she could think her way out of the situation that was bound to ensue, Christine found herself moving towards the mirror, as if Erik would be there to comfort her. She knew he was not.

"Open the door." The demand was repeated, and the anger that filtered through the wooden barrier caused Christine to advance obediently to turn the key in the lock. Cautiously, she opened it.

"Adrian." She bit her lip to keep it from sliding into a childish pout. There was only one reason he was here, and now that she looked at him, she realized how frightened she was. It wasn't her fault, what had happened. But she could not blame Eric entirely, for that quickness in her heart would still not abandon her…

Adrian pushed past her, disregarding the questioning stare she gave him. Instead, he stalked to the center of the room and turned, watching her with a demanding glare as she closed the door to give them some privacy. The silence in the room was unbearable, until she made an effort to speak.

"Where's your ke-"

"It doesn't matter." He cut her off abruptly. Expecting him to say more, she dared not talk. But the stillness cascaded back into the room, enveloping them both, until Christine felt that she would suffocate from the oppressive quiet.

"I'm waiting." _For an explanation…_ his eyes read, easily enough. Cracking her lips in a feeble attempt to defend herself, it occurred to her just how dry her tongue felt as it grated against the roof of her mouth.

"I didn't know…" She began, and then swallowed nervously.

"You didn't know…" Adrian repeated, not sarcastically, but not sympathetically either. "If you didn't know, then why did you let him?"

"I-it… happened so fast, that I… I didn't have a chance to think…"

"You didn't think! That's what I am to you, merely an afterthought?"

"No! I didn't mean it like that!"

"Regardless, that… ill-bred bastard took advantage of you and your-"

"I will not have you calling Eric such names!"

"Oh you won't? After what he did, after how he shamed you?! Do you have any idea what they're saying? And now you're defending him! My God, have I really been so blind? Did I not realize…? 'Eric this, Eric that', it always was about your precious Eric! And now that he's turned you into the Opera Whore…" Adrian broke into harsh laughter. "Yes, yes, they are all whispering that now! Now they know how you came to be the star of the show, kissing whom you will, shamelessly…!"

"Adrian!"

"That's what they say! And then you defend him! Who am I to interfere if you should choose to ruin your reputation? But I'll be damned before I am dragged down with you!"

"Surely, you don't mean -"

"Oh, but my dear, I do." He advanced menacingly, but she did not move, as the wall beside the door was already against her back. "I worked so hard to get where I am today. Ah, my pretty little peach…" He lifted his hand and pulled at one stray curl hanging to the side of her face. "I would stay with you, but what would be the point?" His captivating green eyes shimmered with an unspeakable sorrow she had not been able to see until he stood in front of her. So close…

"He has won. I am nothing more than an afterthought now." He reached behind her and the door swung open at his touch. A faint smile danced upon his lips before he disappeared into the darkened hall behind her; the door quietly shut.

Christine's first movement was to wipe her clammy hands on her dress absent-mindedly. Stiffly, she made her way to the center of the room, where he had stood, and turned to look at herself in the full length mirror. The paleness of her face made her rouged lips stand out as if separate entities, her eyes dark pools of nothingness into which she stared desperately. She could not tell what emotion was forcing her to breathe so fast, nor what it was that was making her shake so… too much had happened to comprehend any further, she could bring herself to do nothing but gaze emptily at herself. She had no one to run to, no one to wait for, no one to hold her hand and tell her that it would all be set right in the morning. Waiting was all she had left, waiting for the realization to strike.

Gone. He was gone. Her eyes did not even well with tears at the thought. Perhaps it was the manner in which he chose to leave; perhaps it was her panic at being not wholly without fault. Or was she? After the scene, she had run from him, but why? Because she was afraid… afraid that Adrian was watching. Afraid he had seen the look on her face when she sang, and afraid that she had been caught in her lie. And she was.

A gentle sound caressed her ears, soothing her aching mind. Dancing about her ever so softly, the deep humming quieted the turmoil inside of her and pulled her along on a path winding down, down, down…

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Christine…

The whisper beckoned her towards the mirror, lulling her senses into a cradle of peace. Without a thought crossing her mind, her fingertips led themselves towards the cold glass of the mirror, only faintly grazing the surface…

"Christine, Christine, Christine. How easy you are to torment."

She blinked several times, recognizing the voice instantly.

"Papa…?"

"And here I was, believing you would forget all about me when your young man came to pay you a visit. What's the matter, child? You look ill."

Christine stepped back from the mirror and turned away. While her back was to him, Erik flipped the reflective glass and stepped out from his hiding place.

"What exactly is it you have been up to?" Erik murmured thoughtfully, watching the girl grasp the back of a chair for support. "Ah, the follies of youth. If I had but a chance to make them all over…" In a rare moment of wrath, the young girl spun about to glare at him fiercely.

"How was I supposed to realize this would happen? Don't patronize me! You claim not to care about me at all and then you come and mock me!"

"I am doing nothing of the sort. Perhaps I'm incorrect in my assumptions; after all, I've never done this before, but I thought that I was doing my duty. Am I wrong to think it is a father's place to protect a daughter's reputation?" She turned away again, her silence indicative of her unwillingness to argue, a softening towards the harsh words he had said to her not so long ago.

"…Why did you shout at me?" As her voice broke, Erik cringed. Crying women were so revolting; they poured so much guilt onto his soul…

"Foolish women…" he muttered sulkily, his mood tarnished by her dredging memories of his rather ridiculous tirade. "I only did that to make you see…"

"I'm not like her!" Christine cried out, finally breaking down into tears. "I won't make… her mistakes! Don't you see, you have what you want!" She looked at him miserably, her face red and her mascara smudged into dark half-moons. A pang of guilt forced Erik to avert his eyes.

"I never said…"

"I have nowhere else to go… Adrian is gone, and _he_ will not come back; oh, he is right not to! I never should have believed… but I did and look at the mess I've made. I have nothing left but music…"

"You know that is not what I intended for you…" Erik tried to begin again.

"It wasn't?" Christine found it was her turn to be bitter. "What about those lectures on abandoning my work? You just want me to be miserable! Like you!" Her sobs had subsided into angry shouts; she had managed to fish out a handkerchief, but was merely clutching it instead of using it to wipe off her drying tears. Erik's own fingers were curled about his palms in fists, his tone nearly as ferocious as hers as he fought to be heard.

"Yes, my dear, quite perceptive of you! I never did like Adrian, but can you fault me? I had every reason to believe he was not worth a moment of your attention…" Erik drew his breath in a hiss. "Instead you chose him over all else, and trampled any in your way to get to him. What was it you saw in him? Money? Status? He has neither, I assure you!" Seeing tears beginning to well again in her eyes, Erik paused, teetering on the edge of another quarrel.

"No," Erik mused at length. "I've been tormented, but never did I wish for you to be miserable. And you are not, not yet. You have not lost everything, child, except perhaps your sight. All is not dark, unless you live in the depths of hell as I do, and even then, the flames will light your path to the sun again should you wish it." Christine sniffled, looking dejected as she shakily made her way to her bed, where she promptly sat.

"Papa… I've been such a fool…"

"There is nothing you… have done with Adrian that cannot be undone, is there?" After a moment's hesitation, Christine shook her head. "Then all will be well. But not until you cease that infernal racket!" He moved towards her and scowled, using his thumb to wipe away the tears that had silently crept out of the corners of her eyes again. "Cry over everything, that's all you women do… and who would have thought Adrian worth shedding tears for!" Christine cracked a tiny smile and sniffed.

"H-he isn't worth…"

"Precisely. Now why must you keep sniveling? I thought you outgrew such things years ago."

"But Papa, I can't get him back…"

"Have I not been telling you he is not worth-!"

"No, no… Eric is gone." With the thought, a fresh wave of tears assaulted her senses, blurring her vision.

"Ah… but still, there is no need for them. He has not gone anywhere!"

"But I saw him run off… Where is he?" Christine's eyes blinked out the last few droplets before beginning to clear with this glimmer of hope.

"Dear God, child, have you been crying all this time because of that?!" Erik cried incredulously. "Well - leave it to me. I shall set things aright between you. Tonight has been enough." With a sigh, he made his way to the mirror. "Ah, I am too old to mediate such foolishness…"

"Papa?"

"What."

"Do you still miss her?" Erik turned, startled by the question.

"… Yes."

"Does it ever leave?"

"… No."

"Well… then I'm glad." Erik looked at her queerly, the statement seeming out of place. She smiled, a thin, fragile curve she fought to maintain. "I thought if I waited long enough, it might disappear…" Erik diverted his eyes, trying to quell the trembling in his heart.

"The burden is one you shall always carry with you. I have not much longer to wait for my freedom…" He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Sleep, child, and erase the worry from your mind. I will see to it all…"


End file.
